Giver of Life
by EverspringNative
Summary: A deformed, lonely child confined to a cellar, freed by a mysterious, dying man. Ridiculed by strangers, captured by gypsies, Erik Kire's life before he became the Phantom.
1. Chapter 1

_Originally this was just one short story, but I really wanted to give Kire a full background. If you've read AHTW then you know his son is named Alexandre. This is the short story of how Erik received Alex from Christine, followed by Erik's childhood leading up through the time he spent with the gypsies._

_I've wanted to rewrite this chapter for a while. Hope you enjoy it._

Giver of Life

My son came into my life unexpectedly, his existence like a flash of lightning consuming my darkness. The days blended together, my thoughts filled with longing for the woman I still loved, whom I would love no matter what.

Storms had passed through Paris, thunder rumbling in the distance, rain rolling down the windows. The knock at the door didn't stir me, not until I heard a familiar voice.

For a long moment I sat in my bedroom, my breath hitched, my heart thudding.

She had returned to me. At last, she had returned to me, her teacher, her loyal servant.

I rose from my desk and stepped into the hall, drawn to her voice. She could have spoken nonsense and I would have fallen to my knees, worshipped her as she deserved.

Then suddenly, drowning out her sweet voice, a piercing cry tore through the quiet house. My lips parted and I inhaled sharply as I watched Madeline accept a bundle of squealing rags.

"When was he last fed?" Madeline asked, bouncing the screaming mass settled in her arms. Sensing me near, she shot me a warning glance, keeping me in my place behind the door.

"This morning. Around eight," Christine replied over the constant wails of the newborn she had handed to Madeline.

"Eight this morning? How often does he eat?" Madeline shouted.

"Every two to three hours."

Madeline's eyes narrowed. "Madame, the hour is close to six. You have not fed him?"

"I have not."

I turned to the clock in the hall and saw Madeline was correct. My heart sank and I turned back to Madeline. In silence I begged her to allow me a moment of Christine's time, a moment of standing with a mother and her child. The mother of my child.

"Does he have a name?" Madeline asked.

"No. Name him as you wish," Christine said, sounding rushed. "Only….don't."

"I beg your pardon?" Madeline asked.

"Christine," I whispered.

"Thank you," Christine said under her breath. "Make sure he doesn't harm him."

"Christine," I said firmly, knowing she would hear me then.

"You are leaving him here?" Madeline questioned.

Before the moment registered in my mind, Christine Daae was gone again, fleeing down the stairs without daring to glance back.

If she had looked back she would have seen me in the doorway, my eyes wide, jaw set, and mouth begging to ask why she was doing this.

A year had passed since I had seen her. Twelve months since we had last seen one another, since she had spoken to me…touched me. Now she was gone again before I could see her beautiful face, her angel eyes and bee-stung lips. Her cruelty knew no end.

Her words still haunted me, plagued me with pangs of anguish. There had been many cruel words directed at me over the years but Christine knew how to inflict pain like no one else I ever knew.

oooOooo

_She held her hand over her stomach and stared at me, her eyes hardened, mouth set in a scowl. Her skin glowed, the dim firelight caressing her delicate features. When she came to me I kept few candles lit as I knew she disliked my appearance, even with the mask and hairpiece. My only concern was her comfort._

_She looked anything but comfortable._

_I would do anything to satisfy her, to see her smile at me. I was little more than a whipped dog at her feet, waiting for a soft hand and expecting another beating. By the look in her eyes, I knew she would leave my heart bloodied._

_"Did you hear what I said?" she asked me bitterly._

_Through my nervous excitement I managed a smile she didn't return. "A child," I said. The word was so foreign to my tongue yet felt like something I wanted to say for the rest of my life. "A child."_

_Our child, a product of my adoration for her._

_She nodded before she turned away from me. I stepped up behind her and placed my hand on her shoulder, needing to feel her warmth, hoping to sense the life she carried within her. I gripped her softly, but she immediately shrugged me away._

_I could still smell her feminine scent in the air, still feel her body close to mine as we made love. _

_"Christine," I pleaded. I wanted to hold her close, to wrap my arms around this woman I loved with all of my heart._

_"Tomorrow I will bleed and it will be done."_

_I was terrified to ask what she meant. "I want this," I said slowly. "I thought tonight I proved how much I wanted this."_

_She turned to me with a wicked smile on her face. "This does not want you."_

"_I don't understand," I said before she walked away from me._

"_A child of your essence, true wickedness of the world."_

"_This child is yours as well," I said in one last moment of desperation._

"_You have been his undoing," she seethed before she stormed away, running up the stone steps and out of my sight._

oooOooo

I stared at the closed door, the physical barrier between us. She was gone again, leaving only a trace of the beauty we had shared. I longed for her acknowledgment, for a glance or a word.

She offered neither.

Madeline protectively held the screaming ball of rags to her chest, shushing and bouncing the inconsolable mass. When I held out my hand she shook her head.

"Give it to me," I demanded.

She shook her head again. "He's hungry. You heard what she said. He hasn't been fed all day." Her eyes left mine in favor of the infant, whose red face I could see between the dingy white blankets.

"He's suffering," I said.

"He's hungry, not suffering," she shouted over his cries.

Quite frankly, I didn't see a difference.

"Give him to me and find him something," I insisted, holding my hand out again. The tone in my voice changed from anger to desperation. I feared this little thing would die before I could hold him. "Give me this child, Madeline. Now."

"No, you don't know what to do."

My son, I thought with a surge of apprehension. This starving little creature was my miserable son.

"Madeline," I warned, staring directly into her eyes. "Give me my son."

Her eyes filled with tears as she handed him to m with great care. She arranged my hands, showing me the proper way to support his head and cradle his tiny body.

"He's wet," she mumbled.

I stared at the squirming child in my arms. "He's….what?"

"Wet," she replied. "Soiled."

I gave a curt nod. "Bring whatever is necessary to keep him content upstairs," I said.

"Take the linens from the closet. Swaddle him," Madeline replied.

"Swaddle him," I repeated as I stomped up the stairs.

"Erik," she called out. "He is fragile."

"I know," I said without looking at her. We were both in a fragile state.

With the door closed, I examined him for the first time.

I pulled the blanket away from his face with my trembling hand and thought about touching him. Fear stopped me. Fear of hurting him made me pull my eyes away, tuck him close to my chest, and bring him into my dark kingdom.

He screamed even louder once I stripped him of his coverings. His clothes were, just as Madeline had said, soiled. He had soaked himself through the blankets, which I removed, wrapped into a ball, and tossed on the floor.

The moment I had him uncovered, he urinated on the bed sheets, writhing and screaming all the while. Flustered, I covered him with a clean towel, then unwrapped him and made a second attempt. Nothing I did seemed to settle or comfort him, and I hoped Madeline would be able to find bottles and proper diapers.

My God was he small. I had never seen a baby and he was nothing like what I imagined. Truthfully I expected a doll with smooth, alabaster skin and bright eyes. This heap of ungodly noise was blotched with red, his tiny eyes squeezed shut and features pinched. Rolls of flesh kicked and punched, his tiny hands balled into fists as he blindly punched at the air, at the creature who failed at providing for him.

He kicked and screamed as I wound the blanket tightly around him, attempted to swaddle him as Madeline said.

He was in pain. There was no other explanation for his howls of protest. I lifted him from my bed and attempted to shush him as I had seen Madeline do unsuccessfully near the door.

"I don't know what to do for you," I explained, sinking into despair and desperation. He had only been in my home for an hour at the most and already he had learned to fear me.

The sound of my voice quieted him for a moment, his eyes opening to show sea-colored irises. He let out a little whimper of agony and opened his mouth wide to begin crying anew.

"I understand your hunger," I said. We both hungered for attention, for a caring, kind hand. "I have gone hungry many nights in the past, but you will never worry."

Again he paused as if the sound of my voice captivated him. I swallowed, walking him around the room, bouncing him furiously. "I will find something for you. I swear it."

He hiccupped pathetically, lips trembling.

"We—we're alone now. She's gone," I said, my voice trembling. "She has given you to me and I will make certain I give you whatever you desire."

_She is gone. _My own words were a punch to the gut. I laid him down on the bed beside me and took in a deep, desperate breath. She was gone. Christine was gone from my life—from this child's life.

Where had she gone? Would she return for him in a day? Perhaps in a month? When would she realize she needed him back, this flawless little baby she had shoved into Madeline's arms. My heart raced, each pulse of blood furthering my trepidation. There was a child in my stead and he was my son.

He was crying again. Howling like an animal.

Tears streamed down my face as I stared at him and knew he deserved better. I gathered him up in his blankets and tried to calmly explain to him that I had asked his mother to give him to me a year ago when she first discovered she was with child. The crying stopped and he listened intently.

"You have my word," I said softly. "I will not send you away, not unless you choose to leave this home. I will purchase the finest clothing and toys for you, I will allow you whatever comforts you desire."

He stared up at me, his eyes filled with wonder. In a heartbeat I was desperately in love with him, mesmerized by his perfect features, the way he was somehow all mine yet nothing like me.

"I will do anything for you," I promised. "But please, I beg of you, do not leave me."

The only thing that destroyed our meager bond was a knock at the door. With a deep breath I forced myself to recover from a bout of emotion before I pulled the door open.

Madeline stood in the hall with a glass bottle in one hand and several flour sacks in the other. I snatched the bottle from her hand and began to shut the door but she stopped me.

"He's crying very hard," she said as she peered at him. "Is he injured?"

"Do you mean to accuse me of abusing him?"

"I said no such thing, Erik."

"He's fine. Leave us."

"Did you make certain she didn't hurt him?" Madeline asked.

I paused and stared back at her for a long moment, realizing she hadn't accused me of hurting my own son. I wasn't sure what to make of her words, as despite how often Christine had hurt me, I didn't think of her as capable of injuring anyone.

"He is hungry," I said at last.

"You don't know how to care for a child," she argued. "Give him to me. I will return him when he's fed."

I glared at Madeline, hating her for being right and despising her for knowing what to do. She would know how to provide for this pitiful creature, but she was neither his mother nor blood relation.

"Tell me," I demanded. "Show me how to care for him."

She looked surprised but didn't argue. In silence she placed the bottle in my hand and pushed the nipple into his open mouth. He protested a moment, then began sucking furiously, grunting and kicking until at last he sighed.

The sight of him in my arms put a lump in my throat. He was entirely too innocent, too perfect to be left in my care.

"You must change him every few hours," she instructed. "And burp him once he finishes the bottle."

"How?" I questioned.

I would do whatever was needed to keep him content.

She took him from me and gently patted his back, which made him scream even louder than before. With a frown she settled him back into my arms and stood watching, her expression unreadable.

"Is this sufficient?" I questioned.

At last she offered a smile and nod of approval. "These things take time," she said. "Eventually you will know what to do."

"How will I know?"

She sighed. "You're his father," she said, her eyes meeting mine. I wasn't certain she believed I had any part in creating such perfection.

Without a word, Madeline excused herself from the room and left me alone with my son. I wasn't sure which of us was more helpless.

He sucked furiously, grunting and breathing so hard that I thought he would inflate and float away from me. He reached out and wrapped his fingers around my index finger, holding me tightly. I had never experienced such gentleness in my life, such innocence in its purest form.

Swallowing hard, I sat down on the end of the bed and cradled him close to my chest, watching in fascination as the once-desperate attempt to drink down the bottle turned into a languid, leisurely activity. Milk streamed from the corners of his mouth and down to his chin where I dabbed the excess away.

He opened his eyes one last time, gaze drawn to the covered right side of my face, the stark white mask I was never without. He met my eye and I swore he knew I was his father, his protector. Perhaps in my embrace he knew he was safe, that these hands that surrounded him would hold him forever.

My God, I thought, this is part of me.

He eventually lulled himself to sleep and the bottle's nipple slipped from his mouth. My racing heart slowed as I patted his back with the tips of my fingers.

_He has no name,_ I thought. Three months he had lived with the woman who had birthed him but did not name him. She couldn't love him because she had never wanted him. He was part of me, and I was a corpse walking through her darkest dream, a pathetic carcass she had gifted with her virginity. I looked at him and hoped he had not suffered at her hand. In a whisper I promised him that he would never suffer at mine.

While he dreamed, I studied his tiny face. The red splotches faded and revealed his flawless alabaster complexion. Both sides of his face were smooth and soft as silk. My finger trembled as I traced from his forehead down to his jaw.

There was no hint of my appearance in him, save for perhaps his long fingers. I swallowed hard and silently thanked God for giving my son a real face, a good face.

I had thought about him over the last year. Once, several weeks after Christine told me she would never see me again, I dreamt of him. In my dream he was dead and Christine had handed him to me, telling me to bury him or toss him into the lake. The devastation I had felt the moment I woke had haunted me for days afterward. I was in mourning.

And suddenly I was profoundly grateful that my dream was not a premonition.

This was my son whose blankets now collected my tears. This was my child who slept in my arms, whose breaths fell upon my fingers as I caressed his perfect cheek. I didn't want to blink or look away in fear that he would disappear or cease to breathe if I didn't watch him.

As carefully as I could, I pushed the bed against the wall, covered him in a blanket, and lay down beside him. He sighed softly, his hand reaching out from the coverings to grasp my finger. The warmth of his touch made me sob in gratitude of having him with me.

"You have no idea what a miserable wretch I am," I said as I left his side briefly and turned down the lamp. In the moonlight I could still see his face kissed by silver light. My lips were wet with tears when I kissed him lightly on the forehead. "You have no idea what a miserable wretch I used to be."

I didn't fully understand how it could be so, but I knew in my heart that he was my savior, my redemption, the only thing in the world that could scrape away my bitterness. So many years wasted in anger and at last I had a reason for joy.

I named him Alexandre, the savior of a man, the one whom I had helped create. The child who gave me my life.


	2. Blue Eyes Peering

A/N I am going to be writing a few short stories in no particular order about Heart/Ghost's Shadow Erik. You may want to put this on your story alert, or just watch Ghost's Shadow for heads up.

BlueEyesPeering

At the most I was nine, perhaps ten years of age. I was old enough to understand that I wanted to flee, but I wasn't yet of an age where I was free to escape my father's cruel fist.

It may have been early summer or late spring. The time of year didn't concern me, as I didn't see the world in color. It was a strange thing, but I didn't realize that until I was much older. My childhood was shaded in gray, from the trees to the grass to the tombstone behind the house. I even bled in gray.

My father hit me until I could taste blood in the back of my mouth and throat. It was thick and nauseating, and my stomach churned as I attempted to remove the taste from my mouth. With each new blow my father issued I panicked until I cried. Just as he wanted, I cried.

And then he hit me harder, telling me to stop crying or he would hit me again. Though I was old enough at the time to know that it didn't matter what I did, he was going to hit me until the world turned black and sound faded. I would slowly awaken, cold and trembling and in the dark hours, perhaps days later.

"Take your hands away from your face," he demanded through his teeth.

"Please don't take my mask," I begged.

It was a gift to me, I thought in those days. When they gave me nothing at all—no kind word, no pleasant smile, nothing but hurtful words and physical pain—I saw it as my gift, the only thing I would ever receive from them that didn't cause me grief.

He took hold of my scraggly, unwashed hair and yanked the mask from my face. My bruised, scraped hands instantly shielded my face, hiding the deformity more than protecting my already bruised flesh from another beating.

"Take your hands away," he said again, this time hitting me in the ear.

The blow stunned me and I stopped. I stopped breathing, I stopped crying, I stopped everything. For a moment I merely peered at him through my fingers, horror in my eyes as I saw the droplets of blood on his face, the red lines smeared across his gin-blossomed face.

He looked like some ancient tribesman marked with the blood of his own son.

"What do you have to say for yourself?" he asked.

"I-I-I'm sorry," I stammered. Nervous, so nervous, so terribly frightened that he would kill me with a single blow to the back of my head.

"Sorry for what?" he demanded.

"For-for-for everything."

I didn't know how else to answer him. I had not attempted to leave the cellar. I hadn't unscrewed the bars or used a nail to pick the lock and free myself. For days I had sat quietly in a corner, rocking back and forth, running my fingers through the tangles in my hair as I squatted near puddles of my own waste. Per their request I had not made a sound. It was as though I had gone into hibernation, my hopes and will to exist within their home suspended, turned dormant.

He hit me again for answering incorrectly, and I pitched from my knees and fell hard on the wooden floor, hitting the right side of my face on its surface.

At once the tears started again, a pained howl of a cry fitting for the animal I had become. I wasn't aware of being lifted from my place on the floor. The next thing I knew I was falling, headfirst into the cellar, my arms outstretched as I tumbled into the darkness.

I don't know why I no longer felt pain. Perhaps I was so accustomed to their treatment that I simply didn't feel anything. I crawled on my hands and knees to the safety of my distant corner, drew my bloodied knees up to my chest, and rocked back and forth, my eyes closed, my head pounding, my tiny heart shattered.

"I want you to love me," I whispered the words I wanted to tell my mother and father. I feared them so greatly that I could never tell them what I wanted. I was not allowed to want. I was not allowed to dream or wish or need anything more than the shelter they provided and the food so spoiled that not even the dog would consume it. "I want you to hug me just once. Just once."

"Hello?"

I drew in a breath and held it, waiting for the unfamiliar voice to call again.

"Is someone in there?"

My God, it was a girl. I could see her silhouette crouched by the window, her hands clasped around the bars.

"Y-yes, I am here," I whispered, crawling on my hands and knees toward her small form.

She giggled, the most magical sound I had ever heard. "Are you real? Or are you my imagination?" she asked.

It was an odd question. I stood at a distance from her and waited until I could see her face.

"Did you leave?" she asked.

"No," I replied. "I—I am not allowed to leave."

My throat tightened unexpectedly as I took a step forward. Seeing her on the outside made me want to escape more than ever. I wanted to beg her to help me, to release me from my little hell.

"Have you made your mummy and daddy very cross? Are you being punished?"

"Yes," I breathed. My fingers rose to the bars, nearing her hands clasped around the metal that would not allow me to leave.

"What did you do?" she asked.

Tears pooled in my eyes as I saw her features, her bright blue eyes peering through the bars at me, her bee-stung lips parting as she saw my face bruised and bloody. I wondered if she noticed the deformity beneath the swelling but didn't care. She was the first person I had spoken to in all my years, the first person who came to me and offered a moment of her time. Even if she left screaming I would be forever grateful to her for the brief time she spent inquiring.

"I don't know what I did," I answered.

"My God," she whispered. "Your face."

"Don't look."

"It's so bruised."

I turned my back to her, so ashamed of myself for upsetting my parents. If only I could sit quietly as they asked, if only I would have been born perfect like the son they wanted and deserved. I balled my hands into fists and swallowed hard, refusing to cry for myself.

"Would you like a chocolate?" she asked.

I turned to face her, disbelieving her offer. My feet trudged forward until I stood so close that she could examine my face.

"Chocolate?" I asked.

She nodded. "I have one left. Would you like it?"

"Yes," I answered, sticking my hand between the bars.

I had never eaten chocolate before. In fact had never had anything sweet, as I was not allowed to have anything considered a reward.

"Here," she said, planting a small square into the palm of my hand.

I bit into it, swallowing the first part whole without bothering to taste it. Realizing my mistake, I cursed myself and placed the remaining portion on my tongue and allowed it to melt.

The girl remained crouched by the bars, her eyes meeting mine, her lips forming a slight smile.

"Do you like it?" she asked.

"Yes," I said, nodding, stepping forward until my face was nearly to the bars.

"You…you look strange," she said, her eyes narrowing.

I stood stock still and allowed her to scrutinize me, allowed her to absorb every detail of my maimed face. With my eyes averted, I swallowed the rest of the chocolate and waited for her to regret her actions.

"What happened to you?" she asked.

"I don't know," I whispered. "I've—I've always been this way."

She nodded slowly. "It looks terrible."

"I know," I shuddered.

"Is it everywhere? On your arms and legs?"

I shamefully shook my head. "Only on my face."

"Well, I should go," she said as she rose to her feet. She stuck her fingers through the bars. "Good bye."

She waited a moment for me to raise my hand to hers. I merely touched her fingertips before I stepped back into the darkness, tears streaming down my face as I watched her leave. I had never touched anyone and no one had ever touched me so gently.

For one brief moment there was no pain. But as she disappeared from sight and I sank to my knees, the weight of my agony crushing me with one swift blow.

Once again I became nothing but a shadow, a little phantom waiting, waiting in nothingness.

Waiting for the next beating, for the next scrap of food, for the next time my mask was removed. Waiting to be human.

I would have to wait three decades for another glimmer of what I had felt the day I saw blue eyes peering beyond my cell bars.


	3. On a First Name Basis

It is a sincere pleasure for me to present the following story. It is a story of Erik Kire, but I didn't write it. Stine, a member of my bulletin board and a loyal minion to Erik, wrote this really, really great vignette about Erik well before he knew Julia.

Please please please leave feedback for Stine! She did an excellent job capturing Erik's personality.

Stine, I want to say thanks for allowing me to post this story with my stories. It's an honor to have a fic based off my version of Erik. Thanks! Gabrina

On a First Name Basis

The grandfather clock chimed. Through a haze of pain and exhaustion I counted the chimes. One, two, three… Was it three in the afternoon already? Four… Time was passing quickly today. Five… I tossed back the towel that covered my head and almost knocked over the washbasin of steaming water as I stood up.

I had told Madame Giry that I would pick up my parcel of goods at five this afternoon and I wasn't dressed yet. I hadn't even washed or shaved, having felt miserable throughout the whole day. My throat was scratchy and dry, there was an awful tightness in my neck and across my back, and a cold stiffness had set permanently into my bones. My head felt as if it would explode at any moment. The whole afternoon I had spent leaning over the steaming washbasin, trying to ease the pressure in my sinuses. Worst of all, a nagging cough had started to plague me. It would be unsafe to prowl around the opera since I couldn't be as quiet as I used to, and I didn't feel like climbing the endless stairs to the surface, but I didn't have any choice. I had run out of supplies already. Besides, I had given my word to the old crone and I hadn't seen her face in over a week. So I carried the basin to the washstand and readied the soap, brush and razor, uncovered the mirror and forced myself to stare into it.

Almost an hour later found me leaning against a wall in one of the tunnels of the first floor, trying to catch my breath. The climb up the stairs had left me winded. My legs were shaky. I had been forced to stop and lean on the wall when the tunnel had started swaying dangerously. I blamed it on the coughing fit that had delayed my ascent in the third cellar. Well, I guess not having eaten much in the last few days had also had a part in it. I took steadying, deep breaths until my knees stopped trembling. Then I headed for Madame's rooms.

I stopped right outside her mirror. I pulled out my handkerchief, took off the mask and wiped my forehead. Despite the freezing temperature of the tunnels, I was sweating. I took a couple of minutes to set the mask in place and straighten the hairpiece. Madame Giry was sitting in her armchair, knitting. She was waiting for me. Usually, on Friday evenings she went to the dancer's rooms after I picked up my goods. I raised my one eyebrow in amusement. It was good to know I didn't have to resort to blackmail or threats to ensure her waiting for me… I tugged at my sleeves and opened the mirror.

Madame Giry rose from her chair, and dropped her knitting. She gaped like a fish outside water.

"I believe we had an appointment at five, Madame?" I asked.

She stared at me and I set my jaw. I stared back, grimly. She had, until then, avoided looking at me directly for long. She reddened, and her eyes darted down to the tangle of yarn and knitting needles at her feet.

"I… I didn't think you would be coming, Monsieur."

"I'm quite late, yes."

That was the closest I would come to apologizing. Damn her if she expected something more. I was not accountable to her.

She looked up, straight into my eyes, her eyebrows drawn.

"It's… Today is Saturday, Monsieur," she replied.

"What?" I blurted.

"Saturday. Today is Saturday."

I drew in a deep breath. I couldn't believe it. Although I lived in the shadows and rarely saw the light of day, I prided myself on keeping perfect count of the time. I always knew the precise date and checked my watches regularly. I coughed in the back of my hand and cleared my throat.

"Well, Madame…" I started.

I watched her pick up her knitting and put it on the service table. She grimaced as she straightened up. She had to be tired from a long day of badgering ballet rats, I thought.

She took a step forward.

"Are you alright, Monsieur? You seem a bit flustered."

"Where are my things?"

She made a vague gesture towards the armoire standing in the corner of the room, but didn't make the slightest attempt at retrieving them. Instead, she just watched me more closely. I couldn't hold her gaze and busied myself retrieving my wallet. I wasn't going to exhaust much of her time. I would leave the amount of money necessary for the expenses of the next month, gather my things and leave.

When I looked up again, her hand was close to my face. I flinched.

"What the hell are you doing?" I snapped.

She lowered her hand, but didn't step away. She was too close to my liking. I stepped back and rammed my back against the commode.

"I was only going to feel your forehead. You seem to be running a fever, Monsieur."

"I'm perfectly fine. Give me my goods!" I spat.

That worked. She took a couple of steps back and turned toward the armoire. I considered taking out my handkerchief to wipe my face again. A new sheen of sweat was cooling on my skin and my hands were trembling. Madame cast a look at me over her shoulder.

"Wouldn't you like to sit for a while, Monsieur? I have freshly brewed tea. Perhaps you would care for a cup?"

"I want my goods," I snapped.

She sighed and shook her head. I squinted at her as she opened the door of the armoire and retrieved a parcel. The room had turned darker. I wondered if the gas in the Opera was running low, causing the lights to dim. Madame turned around, said something, but I didn't catch her words. The sound was strangely muffled, as if we had fallen into the underground lake and I was listening to her voice through the icy waters.

The next thing I was aware of was Madame Giry's voice calling me. I was lying on the floor and she was hovering over me. She was so close I could distinguish the pattern of thin lines on her forehead. I startled and sat up, backing away from her. The world darkened again and I tilted to the side, but before I tipped over there was a firm pair of hands on my shoulders, supporting me and easing me down to the floor.

"There, Monsieur. You shouldn't try to sit up yet."

I turned my head to find Madame Giry hovering over me again.

"What…?" 

"You just fainted, Monsieur."

I batted her hands away.

"Let me be," I grumbled.

I rose on one of my elbows and took a deep breath. I decided to sit up, while I kept a watchful eye on Madame. She had backed away and was crouching a few feet from me, frowning. The lines on her forehead had deepened, making her seem several years older. I flushed with embarrassment at my display of weakness. I was not supposed to faint like a spoiled diva or a ballet rat. I was _not _weak.

"Where are my things?" I muttered as I stood up, using the commode as support. But before I could straighten, my knees gave way. The uncovered part of my face hit against Madame's shoulder, who had stepped forward and caught me under the arms. She wiggled herself under my right armpit and before I could protest, her left arm was encircling my waist and she was leading me, dragging me actually, to her armchair. She dropped me into the armchair and knelt by my knees. I felt her cool fingers against the side of my neck and winced, but couldn't lean away, as I was against the back of the chair.

"You are burning up, Monsieur. When was the last time you ate?"

She was staring at me with a strange expression. She was so close, and yet she didn't seem afraid or repulsed. I looked into her eyes, mesmerized.

"Yesterday… The day before yesterday," I corrected myself.

She rose with a grunt and glared down at me disapprovingly.

"No wonder you fainted, Monsieur. You are staying there and having a cup of tea while I go and fetch you something to eat."

I dared not contradict her. She served me a cup from the tea pot and added three spoonfuls of sugar. She handed the cup to me. I took it with an unsteady hand and looked at the contents.

"Drink it," she ordered.

I took a sip and cast a glance at my parcel, which was still lying on the floor, while she made her way to the door. I would drink her tea and disappear before she returned. Although I paid handsomely for her services, I still didn't trust her not to turn me in. I was a constant annoyance in her life, and she surely would like to get rid of me.

She turned around right before she opened the door. 

"You will not leave, Monsieur, will you? You know you are safe here. A warm meal would do you good."

I almost gasped. It was as if she had read my thoughts. After a moment, I nodded.

"Alright, then," she said. She opened the door a crack and slid out of the room.

I calculated how long it would take her to find one of the stagehands. It would take her at least five minutes to reach backstage and five more to come back. Perhaps it would take her longer to find a sober man. It was Saturday evening, after all. I took out my pocket watch and put it on the armchair, where I could see it. I finished my tea, and set the cup on the side table. I still had seven minutes to get out of Madame's room. I leaned back in the armchair and closed my eyes briefly.

Rough hands grabbed me by the shirtfront, yanked me to my feet and dragged me out of the cellar. They dropped me onto the hard stone floor of the kitchen while sharp, hurtful words hit me.

"Pig, swine! You stink! Ugh! What a mess you have made of yourself, you devil!"

I knew what was coming. I knew the same hands that were stripping me of my clothes would drag me to the yard and hold me under a freezing stream of water while I was slashed to stay in place. I was terrified. Knowing what was to come didn't make it any easier to bear. But frankly I didn't fear the icy water, nor the pain. What terrified me the most was the humiliation, the nakedness. I grabbed my mask and, though I knew it wouldn't do any good, I begged. 

"No, mother, please, don't take it off. Please, I'll be good, I promise. I'll be quiet, mother. I won't escape again. I'll wash myself, mother. Don't take the mask off. I don't want to see the monster, mother, please..."

I knew she would beat me. I knew she would slap my face until the mask fell off and grab my greasy hair and force me to look into the mirror right before she dragged me out to the yard. But I held fast to the mask anyway. 

And then the hands that had been stripping me suddenly turned gentle. They caressed my bare back, my shoulders, the backs of my hands. And the words I had imagined, the ones I had dreamt of countless times, poured from my mother's mouth.

"Shhh… Don't worry. I'm not taking the mask off. Calm down, son. Hush now."

I held my breath, staring up at her. The features that had been set into a scowl softened. Her hands were warm, brushing my bare arms in a soothing gesture. I blinked. Surely I was hallucinating. This heavenly bliss would turn into harsh reality soon enough.

But it didn't. My mother lifted a white garment and passed it over my head.

"There," she said. "Let me put this on you. It is warm, and you'll feel much more comfortable." 

She helped me to thread my arms through the sleeves and buttoned up the front.

My heart turned to lead. All of this was too good to be true. It had to be a dream. She would disappear and I would find myself alone, on my pallet in the cellar. Greatly daring, because I wasn't allowed to touch her, I reached out for one of her hands. I barely touched her before I stopped, afraid that she would recoil from me.

"Mother?"

She held my hand in hers, gave it a little squeeze and brushed her thumb over my knuckles. I watched, fascinated. I had always imagined a caress would be heavenly, but had never thought the skin of her hands would be so soft, so warm.

A knot formed in my throat and I swallowed. 

"Don't leave me, mother. Don't leave just yet…" I whispered.

My voice broke as I cringed, expecting the whack that would follow my terrible dare. I wasn't allowed to ask for anything, much less her company.

"I'm not going anywhere, son."

She caressed my uncovered cheek, wiped away the tears with her fingertips and pressed against my chest gently.

"Lay down, son. You need your rest." 

I gave in to the kind pressure. There was a soft mattress under my body, a warm pillow under my head. And I suddenly realized I was exhausted. My eyelids began to droop, but I held on to her hand, fearful she would vanish. 

"You're not leaving?"

Once again, her free hand caressed the bare half of my face. Her fingers brushed back my hair in a hypnotizing motion.

"I'm not going anywhere, dear. I'm staying right here with you."

"Promise?" I asked drowsily, as I relaxed under her caresses.

"I promise." 

I cradled her hand against my chest, as gently as I could, as I had seen her cradle the porcelain figurine she kept in a crib by her bed. I took a deep breath. Warmth spread from my heart throughout my chest, and I fell asleep.

I was suffocating. My father was holding my head underwater. I knew I had to hold my breath as long as I could, and lift my head as soon as his grip lessened, but I couldn't. I had already breathed in water and I was coughing violently. With all my might I rose up. Instead of my father's violent hands, there was a cool cloth on the left side of my face, a firm hand behind my back holding me upright until the coughing fit subsided and I could breathe again. Then the same hands eased me back onto a soft mound of pillows, so I was not completely lying down and I could breathe easier. It was very dark and I could not make out the features of this person, this heavenly creature, who was touching me with such care and compassion. The person turned, and against the dim light that filtered through a curtained window, I distinguished the skirts, the chignon at the back of her head. Could it really be her? 

"Mother?"

The figure turned around and came closer. A cool hand landed on the left side of my face.

"Yes, son?"

I squinted, trying to focus on her features.

"It's so dark in here…" I rasped. 

I cleared my throat, trying to avoid another coughing fit. It was so warm and my mouth felt as if full of cotton. Then there was a hand at the back of my head, the brim of a glass against my lips. I had a few sips of water but my throat wouldn't allow it. I choked and coughed. A trickle of water slid down my chin. Immediately, the hands disappeared. I flinched and covered my head with my arms, prepared to block the blows.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry…" I whimpered.

Gentle but firm hands grabbed my wrists and made me lower my arms.

"Hush son, it's alright. You did nothing wrong. Here, let me…"

She wiped my chin and caressed my uncovered cheek. The mask was warm against my skin and impaired my breathing, but it was still in place, and I was glad for it. My mother would not be caring for me if she saw what kind of horror I was.

Only when she leaned over and turned the light higher did I realize I had unwittingly brought the worst misfortune upon myself. Not having had an ounce of her attention before had been hell, but losing her affection when I had just had but a taste of it would be much, much worse.

I reached out for the lamp on the nightstand, desperate to go back to the cold embrace of darkness, where my mother did not see me, did not shun me. It was too late, I knew, when I saw her grayish-blue eyes looking at me. I froze, stopped breathing, expecting the blow or the shriek that would follow. And then something astounding happened. The corners of her mouth turned upwards, a delicate pattern of crinkled lines appeared at the corners of her eyes, and I recognized what I had seen in countless faces from afar, when people regarded each other. She was smiling. She was smiling at _me_. She was seeing me in full light and still she did not recoil from me. She sat on the bed and leaned forward. Her cool fingers felt the side of my neck. She frowned.

"You're still running a fever." 

I took in a deep, shuddering breath. A tear slipped from the corner of my eye. She said nothing, but wiped it away with her fingertips. 

"Forgive me…" I said in a sob.

She drew even closer, slid her arm across my shoulders encouraging me to lean my head on her shoulder and before I could understand what was happening I found myself being hugged. The warmth of her embrace was my undoing. The floodgates were fully open, and I wept uncontrollably. 

"There, dear, it's alright," she said, and she began to rock us back and forth. "You've got nothing to apologize for, son. It's alright."

How long had she held me, telling me it was alright, stroking my head, swaying gently, I didn't know. Gradually, the tears slowed and the sobs quieted, leaving me hiccupping like a small child. My throat was tight and I ached from head to toe. An overwhelming fatigue dragged at my limbs and weighed on my eyelids. I was already half asleep when my mother laid me gently against the mound of pillows. I opened my eyes and started to protest weakly. She laid one of her fingers on my lips and gave me a long, solemn look.

"I will stay here, right beside you, son. Get some sleep."

She arranged the blankets, drew them up to my chest and threaded her fingers through mine. I slowly fell asleep, lulled by the rhythm of her thumb stoking my knuckles, wondering why my mother's features resembled so closely those of Madam Giry.

I was on my left side, partly lying and partly sitting, held up by something soft. My legs were slightly bent, my right arm across my stomach. A blanket draped my whole body up to my shoulder, keeping me warm. Then an unusual, muffled thud alerted me to the fact that I was not alone in the room. I bolted upright, my breathing quickened, my arm raised at the level of my eyes, automatically protecting my head. I blinked in the unusually sharp light, trying to orient myself. I was not in my lair beneath the Opera. Where was I? A shudder ran through my body at the thought of Persia. A sickening feeling set in my stomach. Then there was a swish and a hand on my shoulder. Instinctively, I struck the hand away. I lowered my arm and I saw Madame Giry standing a few feet away, holding her right hand on her left, staring at the floor. Only then did I become aware of the fact that the swish had been caused by her skirts and I had struck her. A wave of shame overwhelmed me. The sickness turned into nausea.

"Ma…madame…" I rasped.

She looked up at me, as if I had struck her again. I looked down and found myself staring at my legs, covered in blankets. I looked at my torso. I was wearing an unfamiliar nightshirt, white and stiff from being starched. From the corner of my eye I surveyed my surroundings. I was in Madame's room, sitting on her bed.

"I see you are feeling better, Monsieur. Let me bring you something to drink." 

I blinked in confusion as I looked up at her. A slight smile curved the corners of her mouth. I was struck by the feeling that I had seen her smiling at me before, but it was such a preposterous thought that I dismissed it immediately.

I shook my head slightly in an attempt to clear my head. That was a big mistake. The room spun and I had to lean back on the pillows. Suddenly, Madame was standing by the bed holding a steaming cup in one hand. I wondered at how quickly she had moved.

"You'd better sit up a bit straighter, Monsieur, so you can drink. Shall I help you?"

She was already putting the cup on the nightstand. Instinct filled me with a sense of dread.

"No, I can…" I rasped. My throat was as dry as the sands of the desert.

She waited patiently until I sat up once again and then leaned over behind my back. 

"What the hell are you…?" I managed to protest before cough settled in.

She looked at me sternly.

"I'm arranging the pillows. Here," she scoffed handing me the cup.

Her manner was so dignified that I found myself taking the cup. Carefully, I had a sip. The concoction was warm, very sweet. I looked up at her.

"Tea. Sweetened with honey. It will ease the pain in your throat," she clarified.

I took my time finishing the drink. Madame usually bought a rich, thick, aromatic kind of honey. The warmth of the tea was quite soothing.

She gathered the cup from my hands as soon as I had lowered it for the last time. I closed my eyes briefly. I opened them again to find a spoon a few inches from my face.

"What…?"

"A medicine for your cough, Monsieur. Take it," she said in an imperious tone.

I eyed the thick dark substance suspiciously. I would be damned if I swallowed anything like that. What if she was trying to poison me? I raised my eyes defiantly and pressed my lips together.

She sighed, shook her head. She took the spoonful and swallowed it. I watched dumfounded as she refilled the spoon from a bottle she held in her hand and placed it in front of my mouth again.

"There," she said. "It's not poison, Monsieur. It will do you good."

I opened my mouth. The potion tasted horribly. I swallowed and grimaced.

"See? It wasn't that bad."

I closed my eyes and clenched my teeth. She was aggravating in her fussing.

"Where…? What…?"

The haziness of my surroundings had apparently found its way into my head, and I was unable to utter a whole, coherent question.

"You are ill, Monsieur. You ran a high fever yesterday, but now it has subsided."

Yesterday? How long had I been in her rooms, then?

"You spent the night here, Monsieur. It is Sunday afternoon."

I started at her statement. It took me a moment before I realized I must have spoken my thoughts aloud. A whole night? That was absurd, unthinkable. I wasn't staying a minute longer. I threw the covers to one side and slid my legs out of the bed, only to stop, embarrassed. I was only wearing the nightshirt, and my feet looked ridiculously pale against Madame's carpet.

"Where are my clothes?" I barked, before I had to cover my mouth with my hand to stifle another coughing fit.

My head was pounding when I finally stopped.

"Please, Monsieur," Madame was now standing in front of me, hands up, in an appeasing gesture. "Lie down again for a minute. You are not well yet."

I shifted uncomfortably under her gaze.

"I am leaving," I stated with more confidence than I felt. My head ached and it was difficult to take deep breaths. It had been a long time since I had felt this ill.

"Please rest before you leave. It is a long way down."

I closed my eyes briefly and counted to ten. At last, I nodded.

"Alright," I mumbled, more for her sake than mine. Arguing would have taken more energy than I seemed to possess.

I covered my legs with the blankets and leaned back into the pillows. When the pounding in my head left some space to thought, I realized what she had said.

"How the hell do you know how far it is?"

She smirked.

"The first cellar is occasionally used for storage, Monsieur. You must be living at least two levels below it. It's just a matter of common sense."

It made me uncomfortable that she had an idea, however rough, of the location of my home. I shifted in the bed and licked my dry lips. And then, by the brush of the pillowcase against my scalp, I realized my hairpiece was missing. My breath caught in my throat. A wave of fire rolled over my face, closely followed by white hot anger. I sat up again and looked around the room. The damned thing was not to be seen.

"Where is it? What have you done with it?"

She looked at me with a blank expression on her face.

"It!" I said venomously while I pointed at my head. "Damn you, woman! Isn't your curiosity satisfied already? Haven't you stared enough at the monster?"

Her eyes darted away, toward the commode. On top of it, tossed carelessly, lay the mass of dark hair. Madame stared at it while wringing her hands, obviously disgusted at the prospect of having to touch it. I threw the covers to one side. As if my movement had been some kind of cue, she strode toward the commode, took it, and handed the wig to me, carefully avoiding my gaze. She cast me a quick glance as I snatched the thing from her hands.

"It… It fell off during the night, Monsieur. You were so hot that you seemed… relieved without it."

I sneered. At the sound, she glanced up again. Her eyes were glassy. There were deep dark shadows under them.

"Don't look at me!" I shouted.

She cringed and cast a look at the closed door.

"Turn around." I commanded in a lower voice. 

She stood rigid, apparently fascinated by something on the floor.

"I said turn around," I muttered through clenched teeth. At last, she obeyed. I adjusted the hairpiece on my head.

I looked about the room, and finally spotted my clothes, tossed over the back of a chair. I stood up on clumsy legs. Madame turned around and started to protest.

"Monsieur, you should…"

"Shut up! Damn you! Turn around and keep still!"

She turned around again and stood, back straight, in the middle of the room while I slowly got dressed. It was an excruciatingly long process. My hands were oddly clumsy, and it was a big effort to put every garment on. More than once, I was about to lose my balance, but with the help of the steady chair and fueled by anger, I made it.

She had humiliated me. She had stripped me of my dignity while I was helpless. How I hated her. My throat closed and my eyes began to sting, while my temples throbbed painfully.

"Where are my things?" I asked when I had finished lacing my shoes.

She looked at me over her shoulder and then turned around. She gave a step forward, hands clenched in front.

"Monsieur you shouldn't…"

"Give. Me. My. Things." I demanded through tight lips, stressing each word.

She bit her lip and gave me a sideways glance. At last, she turned around and went to the armoire, where she started taking things out and piling them on the commode. First, there came my parcel, and then another slightly bigger one, and a brown paper bag, and a smaller item, made out of wool. She started putting them in a sack.

"What the hell…?" 

"I bought some things for you, Monsieur," she interrupted me without turning around. "For your illness. Here's a blanket," she said, pointing at the larger parcel.

"I have blankets," I protested.

"An extra one will do no harm. I also got you some oranges. They are very good for colds. And a jar of honey. And your medicine…" she rattled on as she looked around the room, spotted the bottle on the nightstand, made sure the lid was tightly closed and shoved into the bag as well.

I grimaced, massaged my uncovered temple. She was making my headache worse with all her chattering.

"Monsieur?"

I opened my eyes to find her standing a few feet away with a contrite expression. Perhaps she was already regretting taking care of me. Well, I wouldn't bother her any longer. There was nothing I wanted more than to bolt from that room, hurry down the stairs and bury my pathetic self in my bed. 

"Do you have any heating in… Where you live? It is very cold in the cellars, and the dampness won't do you any good. Perhaps it would be better if you stayed…"

"I have a stove, thank you," I said with all the finality I could muster. 

My anger was still fueling my resolve, but the discomfort and the soreness were strongly competing against it.

She paused. I saw in her eyes that she was mustering the strength to continue. I took a deep breath, put my hat on and stood up. If she kept on prattling I would pass out again. I took the bag, swung it over my shoulder and headed for the mirror. I had almost opened it when a hand on my forearm made me shrink instinctively.

"Monsieur," she breathed, very softly.

She was holding the woolen cloth. She unfolded it. It was a scarf.

"Just let me…"

I froze in place as she stood on her tiptoes and wrapped it around my neck. She gave me a motherly pat on the shoulder when she finished and smoothed out the lapel of my coat. There was a lump in my throat, and my sinuses were threatening to drain. I hurried to open the mirror. I tipped my hat toward the right side of my face and lowered my eyes. Suddenly words failed me, and it seemed improper to leave without bidding her adieu. She had, for some unfathomable reason, taken care of me during the night. Why had she done it was beyond my comprehension, but she deserved something for her trouble. I cast a sideways glance at her before I stepped out of her room. It was an impulse, and a voice inside me said I would regret it later, but she suddenly looked old and forlorn.

"Erik," I muttered and looked at the floor so I wouldn't have to witness her reaction. I was afraid to look her in the eye and see indifference or contempt. "My name is Erik."

And with that I stepped out and pressed the mechanism that closed the mirror.

What at the moment seemed some kind of odd gesture of gratitude towards her, turned out to be a benefit to me. Two weeks later, when I went again to retrieve my goods, I felt a not wholly unpleasant thrill to hear my name on her lips. She asked me how I was doing and told me she had purchased another bottle of medicine. She had also bought me a sweater, so I wouldn't go cold when I wandered around the Opera. I told her and it sounded harsher than I intended, that they had been unnecessary expenses. I cut the conversation short, although as usual, she encouraged me to stay for a while and have a cup of tea. When I got back to my lair and opened the sack, the first thing I found was one of her notes. I opened the envelope.

_Erik:_

I hope you are feeling better. Remember to take your medicine. Three spoonfuls a day. Keep warm.

Madeline

I think I read the note twenty, thirty times. I certainly memorized the slight slant of the 'E' in my name, the little flourish with which Madeline's hand ended the 'k', the irregular blotch that was the dot over the 'i'. My name. It was my name, on a note addressed to me. It was the first time anyone had written me a letter. A letter to _me_. Not to the Phantom, or the Opera Ghost, or the Great Magician, or the Trapdoor Lover.

The simple words kept rumbling in my head as I fell asleep that night, wrapped in Madeline's soft blanket: _I hope you are feeling better_. And even more astounding: _Keep warm_.

_Keep warm._

I hope you are feeling better. 

I couldn't comprehend why someone was fretting over me. I recited those words as if they were a mantra the following days. I kept the note in my pocket for over a week. I caressed my name so many times that I almost rubbed it out. I wore Madeline's thick, warm sweater until all the traces of illness had disappeared. By then the sweater smelled, and I had to soak it in warm water for a long time.


	4. Promise of Love

The Promise of Love

I had become a master of escaping the cellar by the time I was six or seven years of age. Defiant, spirited still despite the world of cold and darkness in which I lived, I took great joy in finding an escape and running wild in the night. Barefoot, often half-naked, I carefully lifted the barred window and slithered into the night, my heart thumping.

The consequences had never outweighed the promise of adventure. Without a sound of protest I would accept my punishment if I were discovered, never fighting the hand or belt. Nothing my father said or did mattered any more, as I knew in my heart that one day he would kill me. If I chose to survive, I would leave their home and never look back.

Indeed, they wouldn't want me to look back at their house and ruined lives.

It was summer when I began traveling farther throughout the town. I never recalled its name. The streets smelled of fish and there was always the sound of the sea nearby, the cry of gulls and the creaking of boats in the harbor. Grand illusions of stowing away on board and becoming a man of the sea filled my mind. I would be a pirate, I mused, sailing alone, seeing each corner of the world, fooling sirens. Being caged in my youth made me all the more willing to break away and see everything I was denied.

I started small.

As a child, anything after sundown was incredibly late. It couldn't have been past ten in the evening when I padded down alleys, frightening the cats and stray dogs that had made a meal of garbage. If I was careful I could secretly observe women and men leaving taverns and cafes. The farther I walked from my home the cleaner the people appeared. The women wore expensive clothing, dresses that made them appear as living dolls. The men in their fine evening wear carried their canes and held their ladies on their arms.

I was a part of their secret world, though they never knew it. It delighted me to no end that I could walk in darkness and imitate them and they would never know. My harmless deception allowed me a sense of power that didn't exist in my bruised, beaten body.

There had been music coming from a tavern that night I escaped from the cellar. My parents had been arguing, which was so common that it felt unusual to my ears when there was silence. While they insulted and assaulted one another, I wriggled through the opening and followed the sound.

Music made me feel as nothing else could. It stirred life into me that was always on the brink of being snuffed out. The notes I heard conjured visions in my mind, allowed me the escape I yearned to feel.

I was so enamored by the sound of the string quartet that I nearly walked into the establishment and took a seat with the crowd. Instead, fearing their civilized world, I retreated like an animal and crouched in the alley.

But it angered me that I couldn't hear the music clearly; that people dared to laugh and speak over the sound that should have taken precedence over everything in the room. They were fools unable to recognize the beauty that was before them.

With my legs tucked up to my chest, I rested my chin on knees and closed my eyes, doing nothing more than breathing.

I had never felt anything like this before, so warm, so magnificent. My fingers tingled, my body felt light. I was certain in that moment that it was better than anything else I would ever experience, greater even than the human touch I had always been denied.

My throat tightened as my eyes were pricked with tears. I wanted to recreate what I heard, to carry this forever in my hands as well as my mind. I feared losing this sensation, of never finding it within myself…this beauty. Such beauty. The key, the promise of love, of happiness.

A violent tug on my arm ripped away my pleasant thoughts and I gasped as I was forced to my feet.

"No, please," I begged, attempting to shield my face. I hadn't begged in a very long time and my outburst shamed me.

"Ah, then you are alive," a voice rasped in my ear.

The hand that grasped my arm held me loosely. At any moment I could have pulled free and run away, but I decided not to move. I waited, panting, needing to know fate's intentions. I wasn't sure if I was being brave or foolish. It was too dark to see the man's face or for him to see mine, and now that he was near me he could treat me as he would any other. Cruelty or mercy was not defined by my deformed flesh.

"Listening to the music?" he asked.

"Yes," I answered.

The entity chuckled. "And do you dabble in music, my son?"

At first I thought he mocked me and I stiffened, preparing to punch him in the belly and flee. Something stopped me. Curiosity, I suppose, or the desire to speak with someone, anyone at all.

I shook my head. "I would like to, very much," I answered.

"Why is that?"

"I would be a master," I answered.

He laughed again and patted my arm. "Perhaps," he answered. "Goodnight, child."

He'd not threatened to harm me, made no attempt at molesting me in any way. Instantly I clung to this stranger, feeling kinship to a figure in the night lurking in my domain.

"Do you play?" I questioned before he released my arm.

"Not well," he answered. There was melancholy in his words. He pressed his fingers into my arm and I suppressed a shiver. He only had a thumb and a forefinger, or possibly his middle finger. The rest were little more than nubs.

"How did you learn?" I asked, desperate for his knowledge.

"Taught myself."

His words intrigued me. I could teach myself. I was sure of it.

"I need an instrument," I said more to myself than to this stranger.

"That always helps an aspiring musician."

The music inside the tavern came to an end and the crowd applauded. I reeled with excitement, with anticipation. Ah, it was enticing.

"My violin finds little use these days," he said. "I believe it would be much happier in willing hands."

"I have no money," I said quietly.

"Money," he replied, "is unnecessary."

In hindsight, I should have been wary of his words, as there were forms of payment a mere boy could give a man that were worse than losing coins. But I was naïve, and fortunately this fellow had nothing lecherous on his mind.

He released my arm.

"I'll leave it here for you tomorrow," he said.

"Why?" I blurted out. His words left me agitated. A violin, he promised, an instrument for my music. But not until tomorrow.

"I haven't yet decided."

He walked away and I didn't stop him. I was certain he would not return, or if he did it would not be with a violin. I returned home, my heart filled with sorrow. I was a fool for believing his words, for accepting his promise.

That night I didn't care if my father stood waiting for me at the bottom of the stairs. I didn't flinch when he retrieved his belt, grabbed me by the hair, and forced me to bend over so that he could bloody me.

I remained hopeful that the following night when I escaped—I would be damned if blisters broke me—that there would be a violin in an alley.

Fortunately, my father was too drunk and too exhausted from fighting with his wife to thoroughly punish me. He forgot about the window and stumbled upstairs. Crumpled at the bottom of stairs, I fell asleep and dreamed of music, of glorious sounds I could create. The promise of love and adoration from a crowd.

The following night I left again, sucking in a breath as my bruised, tender flesh wriggled out the window. I practically flew to the tavern, where the only sound that night was raucous laughter. There I waited, my eyes wide open, my body tense.

I flinched when the stranger returned and took my arm. He walked as silent as a ghost.

"You've returned," he said, sounding surprised.

"I have."

"Are you a street urchin?" he questioned.

"No."

"Do you travel with the fair?"

"No."

He chuckled softly. "Very well. You shall have many young women at your door when they hear you playing."

I didn't answer as I couldn't fathom the significance of his comment to my life. I waited as patiently as I could for the promised violin. Unexpectedly he grabbed my arm again and I turned my face away.

"I won't hurt you, boy. My sons have grown up and left me. Their mother's dead, gone to a better man than I am, bless her soul." He paused, his claw-like hand once again digging into my arm. "I may seem a frightful creature, but you will see I am not a monster."

His words remained with me for a lifetime.

"What happened to your hand?" I asked, settling in his presence.

"I was once a fisherman," he said. "But the nets and hooks…? I caught myself and the fish went free."

Something hard nudged me in the side and I held my breath.

"Here. Take it."

I did. I found the handle and took the violin case. After a moment, the man sighed.

"I live above the butcher's shop. Follow the smell of blood and you're sure to find me," he said. "I'll teach you to play if you'll spare the time."

Slowly I stepped back. "I'm not allowed out," I said.

"Are you Kimmer's son?" he questioned.

I had no idea who Kimmer was, but I'd heard the name before. I didn't know my parents' names. The words they had for one another were ones I didn't wish to speak.

Still, I nodded. Better to be named someone's son than no one at all.

The man sighed again. "He won't understand music."

I nodded again, unsure of whether or not he could see me.

"Best not play it in front of him."

"I won't," I promised.

"You won't come to the butcher's shop, will you?" he asked.

"No," I answered.

"Goodnight to you, then," he said, squeezing my arm tightly. "Tell me your name, child, so that one day I may say that I knew you."

I don't know why I answered him. I should have run away and never looked back, but I wanted him to know me, as I feared I would die and no one would ever know I existed. Strange to be a child and hold such fears.

"Erik."

"Play in the graveyard," he suggested. "Raise the spirits one night. Ghosts," he mused, "appreciate a well-played tune."


	5. The Shadow, pt 1

This will be a two-parter. I really appreciate your reviews. These vignettes are the hardest, most gut-wrenching to write, but somehow they're always my favorites. I enjoy imagining what a young Erik experienced, both good and bad, as along with his suffering he eventually finds peace.

NDBRs: There were some changes.

Giver5

For weeks I left home in the middle of the night and found my solace in the graveyard, just as The Shadow had bade me. That was how I thought of him, this man with merely a finger and a thumb.

I saw him three more times after he gave me his violin. The first time it was with a full moon overhead. I hid from him; wriggled into a crypt and pressed my back to the wall so he couldn't see me.

"Kimmer's son," he called as he tapped his cane on the ground. "Have no fear, my child."

Like a frightened dog I glanced out and met his eye. He didn't appear surprised when he saw my masked face. He merely smiled, his face thin and wrinkled. He looked as I had anticipated: Watery, dark eyes, thin, gray hair. There was a wildness to his appearance, but at the same time he appeared calm.

I emerged from the crypt and stood beside him, the violin behind my back.

"A mask of wood?" he questioned.

Ashamed, I offered no explanation. I lowered my eyes and stared at his knees.

"Does it hurt?" he questioned.

Still, I refused to speak. So much of me hurt, ached and stung from a combination of words meant to shame me and a hand that threatened to break my bones. Yes, I wanted to tell him, yes it hurts very much. This face, this mask, it hurts more than you will ever know.

"Kimmer's son, you're very quiet tonight. Have the ghosts gone away?" he questioned.

I looked at him then and saw the devious smile on his face. "I broke one of the strings," I confessed without intending to tell him.

"Ah," he said. He extended his hand. "Sit with me. I'll show you how to repair it. Then, when it happens again, you will be able to fix it yourself."

Music was the only love I had known. I looked at The Shadow and nodded, my mind made up. I would trust him not only because he'd given me this violin but because he'd seen me three times and not once attempted to hit me, never humiliated me with cruel words. I trusted him. And when we sat in the graveyard, I wished like hell that he had been my father.

"Here, Kimmer's son," he said as he eased onto the ground. In his hand he held an apple, which I took immediately.

I'd never tasted fresh fruit before, as my food was always stale or bruised. I groaned as the juices slipped between my mask and skin, then turned away, embarrassed by my display.

The Shadow laughed. "The sound of appreciation," he said.

We sat in silence for a moment before he showed me how to fix the string, then removed all of them and made me do it myself. He told me there were difference in strings, and promised he would bring several for me.

"Pull the peg toward you," he instructed when I nervously sat and stared at the instrument, unsure of how to remove the string.

"You must change the strings every six months, unless one breaks on you sooner," he said. "Will you do this?"

"Yes," I said eagerly as I threaded my string through and wound it pushed on the peg as I tightened it.

"Is it on the grove, my child?" The Shadow questioned. "On the bridge?"

"Yes, yes it is," I said.

I glanced at him and he smiled, nodding in approval. "Very well done, my son. Very well done."

I enjoyed the challenge, the opportunity to test my mind and stretch my thoughts. No one had ever told me that I could do good, but there I sat beside a man who had no name and whose face was barely visible.

The true angel of music.

Before he went on his way, he handed me another apple and questioned me a second time regarding my mask.

"Wood is too heavy," he said. "Does it give you headaches?"

I shrugged. The Shadow laughed again and moved to hand me the violin, but all I saw was his hand shoot out. Swift as I could, I pushed myself back, moving away from him. My heart raced, my legs curled up to my chest in a moment of unwarranted fear.

The Shadow didn't move. His eyes lowered and he sighed heavily. "Ah, Kimmer's son," he said as he shook his head. "My apologies, my son."

Slowly he handed me the violin and waited until I climbed to my feet before he rose. We stood for a moment and stared at each other. It was time for me to return home, but I didn't want to leave. I wasn't sure if I longed for the quiet or the unthreatening company. More than ever, I dreaded my father's looming shadow cast down upon the cellar stairs. My stomach twisted in agony, but like an animal awaiting slaughter, I went to the butcher, as there was no other choice.

"Have you only one mask, my son?" he questioned.

I shook my head.

"Are they all made of wood?"

I nodded.

"Cloth would be more comfortable," he said as he surveyed my mask. "Or, perhaps leather."

"I've neither," I said. My voice broke when I replied. I felt my throat tighten, as I feared he was about to shame me for my appearance. I glanced at my dirty bare feet and felt tears prick my eyes. I was truly an animal, filthy and uncouth.

The Shadow placed his hand on my shoulder. "I've both, my child."

Three weeks passed before I saw him again.

-o-

The only word I understood through the crack in the cellar door was asylum. I had no idea what it meant, but merely by the tone of their voices, I knew my parents had found a way to rid their home of the child they had not wanted.

Somehow, I had to escape. For good. Perhaps I should have left long before I did, but I couldn't. Despite the beatings that awaited, I always returned to their home. Their shelter was better than none at all, their scraps of food better than rummaging in the alleys. At a very young age I realized that I would not survive beyond my childhood, but I made no attempt to rectify my lot in life. It was my fate as a monster. It was the only life I knew.

I walked to the cemetery that night and cried until I could barely breathe. It was rare that I cried, and I don't know why I allowed myself to break down this time. Perhaps it was because I understood that the end was near.

An apple rolled across the grass and landed by my foot. With tears still in my eyes, I glanced up and saw The Shadow.

"I thought you'd abandoned your audience for good, Kimmer's son," he said as he tipped his hat at me.

I stared at the apple, my stomach growling for sustenance. It had been two days since the door had opened, but with starvation came peace. I gladly traded a slap to the face for an empty belly.

"Here, my son," The Shadow said as he placed a cloth sack at my feet.

He appeared thinner than the last time I had seen him, but his smile was warm and inviting. With a grunt, he sat down beside me and stretched out his legs.

"A beautiful night," he said. "The kind of night the spirits like best." He clicked his tongue on the roof of his mouth and scratched his chin. "Still not one for words, eh, my boy?"

He nudged the sack and nodded for me to open it.

Food. Slices of ham, a chunk of cheese, and half a loaf of bread. Real, edible, food. For me. I glanced up at The Shadow and wondered what the consequences would be of his actions, the punishment that accompanied the gift. My mouth watered nonetheless.

"I won't look," he said quietly. "If you wish to eat without the mask."

I turned away from him and devoured the ham first, then the bread and cheese. In my haste I nearly made myself sick, but it was well worth it. If only for a moment, I felt like a prince, for once more human than animal.

"You've not listened to the music in quite some time, Kimmer's son."

"No," I replied. A full belly loosened my tongue.

The Shadow smiled. "They've not played well since you heard them," he said with a chuckle. "Perhaps you should inspire them."

I bowed my head, embarrassed for a completely different reason than I had grown accustomed to in my youth.

"How old are you, my child?"

"Twelve?" I guessed. I had no idea.

"Twelve is a good age," he said. "At least I think it is. It's been…centuries since I was twelve," he said with a wink.

We sat in comfortable silence for a while until my eyes grew heavy and my chin touched my chest. The Shadow woke me when he coughed into the crook of his arm.

"I've a new mask for you, my son," he said. His voice was hoarse, and I wondered if he'd also fallen asleep while we sat in silence.

Sitting upright, I stared wide-eyed at his outstretched hand. Pinched between his forefinger finger and thumb was a sturdy mask made of cloth. It looked beige in color, though by moonlight I couldn't tell for certain.

Breath held, I hesitated. "What must I do…for this?" I questioned.

The Shadow nodded. "Continue to play," he said.

"In the asylum?" I blurted out.

"The asylum?" he questioned.

My outburst mortified me and I bowed my head. I had no idea what I had confessed, nor whom I had confessed to, but I realized at last that I didn't regret telling him. He'd given me an instrument, the first true gift I'd been given. He offered food, and all I returned to him was awkward conversation. As much as any, this man was my friend, my companion of shadows and moonlight.

"Oh, Kimmer's son," he sighed.

I looked up at him, at this nameless man who had shown me more compassion in my twelve years than I'd ever received from my father. I wished he would become my father, that somehow he would stand up and reveal that he was in fact my sire and that he would whisk me away.

But he was not my father, no matter how many times he called me his son. I was but a ghost and he but a shadow. In daylight, I wonder if he disappeared just as I did. It saddened me greatly.

"What's an asylum?" I questioned.

Without an answer, The Shadow wept for me.


	6. The Shadow, pt 2

NDBRs: There were a few minor changes.

The Shadow

The Shadow frightened me when he didn't answer my question regarding the asylum. I sat, not a whit of patience left, and felt my demise looming closer with each breath.

"Is it death?" I asked.

It wasn't that I necessarily feared death, but I wanted to know what lay before me. My earliest childhood memories revolved around rebuilding a broken clock and picking up shards of glass and shaping the pieces into a prism. For hours I entertained myself with elongated rainbows, turning the glass so that there were dozens or merely one—and being fascinated by thick glass that could set paper on fire because the light that passed through it became hot as it was magnified.

Everything around me had a purpose whether others saw it or not. My purpose was to be god of my small kingdom, a master of creation and destruction. I knew how my world worked and death, if anything, was merely an obstacle. I admit I didn't understand the finality of the situation.

The Shadow gazed at me and frowned. "Do you understand what an asylum is, my son?"

I shook my head.

"I do."

I held my breath, the hairs on my arms standing on end. He hadn't said a word to explain this fate my mother and father had whispered and yet I feared the unspoken.

"You cannot go there willingly," he said. He reached out and clutched my arm. "Do you understand me, my boy? They will break you inside and out, bleed you, beat you, and lock you in solitude for the remainder of your life."

It sounded no different than my current experiences. This asylum didn't frighten me. It was merely moving from one corner of misery to another.

"I shall remain indoors?" I questioned. My fear was to live outdoors like an animal without shelter. Grasping what I could, I believed that my parents cared for me enough to allow me a roof—their roof, no less.

The Shadow was quiet a moment, perhaps appalled by my words. He looked at me and shook his head. "It isn't the same," he said at last. "You've far too much intelligence for the world to cast you away, child. There is music within you that would never emerge from behind those inescapable walls. For now you are able to free yourself, aren't you?"

I nodded. If nothing else, I prided myself on outwitting my parents and taking leave when I desired. The consequences didn't concern me until I returned.

"No music, no night air, no silence…silence…do you hear that, my son? The sound of crickets, a symphony in its own right. You would have none of this within the confines of an asylum. You cannot allow anyone to relinquish you to that _hell_."

My eyes must have bulged from their sockets. If he wanted to frighten me he had succeeded. Only the sound of my father's footsteps nearing the cellar door had ever caused my heart to beat harder, the anticipation, the inevitable bearing down upon me. At least with my father I knew what awaited me, but this was a greater fear, a heavier danger that sat upon my shoulders and settled in my gut like a boulder.

The Shadow leaned forward. "You must run far away."

I doubt he expected me to do so that moment, but that was exactly my reaction. Masks in hand, I bolted from the cemetery and ran as fast as my naked feet could carry me. Once I returned to my parents' home I discovered a candle in the cellar and knew that my father awaited my return.

Lost, confused, I sat outside the window that was my portal to the world and rested the back of my head against the house. I feared that if I allowed my father to capture me the liberties I enjoyed would swiftly come to an end. Over and over I said the word in my mind: Asylum. It sounded perverse the more I thought of it. I ran my hands down my arms and surveyed the night.

I started to hate everything familiar to me.

The world was a vast place of which I had seen little. I knew of the sea, a great, watery road that had carried adventurers for centuries. While I wandered the streets I had heard sailors speak of Italy, Germany, Africa…Persia.

I smelled my destiny in the air, the path to far corners of the globe waiting for me to simply abandon my home. My fantasy-driven mind wandered. I imagined myself traveling the earth, perhaps locating an ancient tribe where the warriors painted their faces. I could live amongst them, unafraid. I could be like them, these men. I would not be a monster lurking in darkness, a creature committed to an asylum, to _hell_.

Unexpectedly I was grabbed by the throat and dragged into my parents' house, my legs thumping against each stair as I was returned to my little prison…my shelter that I thought separated me from an animal.

Dazed, I didn't feel the first slap across my face. Their bars could not hold me. I was certain of it. Silent as a mouse, I endured one last bloodletting, one more bruise, one more name no parent should call their child. They would do as they desired and remain within their nameless little town in their filthy, terrible house.

I, however, would see the world. I would find my place, my tribe…my acceptance in the human race. Unfortunately, I had no idea it would take a lifetime to discover what I had fantasized that night. But I never forgot how hungry I was to obtain a worthy life, even when I was certain it would never be mine.

That night, as much as I wanted to cling to it, my father broke a part of my spirit. I did not leave his home. Not yet.

Not yet.

He would beat me in a different fashion before I could leave their domain, but even then I did not leave my familiar world willingly.


	7. Discovery

NDBRs: Minor changes at end.

"Discovery"

Over a month passed and I was not sent to the asylum. My parents' house was abnormally quiet the majority of the day and often at night, and for the first three days following my latest escape, I wondered if they had abandoned their home and the devil who lived beneath their floors.

I came to realize soon enough that my father was absent. I spent countless hours sitting atop a discarded dresser and listening to my mother muttering to herself. It comforted me, the sound of her voice, even though I couldn't make out her words. With no one in the house to speak with, I imagined she spoke for me.

However, when she retired for the night or left the house, I entertained myself. Once I traveled from their home I started to view myself as born older, more wise. I had taught myself to read, matching pictures in books to the symbols beneath them. My first language was Latin, which fascinated me. On the rare occasion when I was allowed out of the cellar and told to bathe, I once attempted to earn my mother's affection by reading a label in the water closet. Rather than view me as extraordinary I had instilled fear in her with my unnatural ability. My interest in literature faded, my desire to learn French and English didn't come until much later, when I was fifteen or sixteen years of age. However, German and Italian were necessary for my music.

During the weeks of my father's absence I reached a different type of maturity. Until then I had only known fear or indifference, but with sexual maturity came frustration and anger. My rebellion would not lead to a simple escape. Years of neglect, of facing the punishment only my father's fist could issue, made me desire an equally violent approach.

No one had told me how fascinating a tool every man possessed. What I discovered one night was the greatest pleasure I'd ever felt. In the back of my mind, perhaps, I understood it wasn't acceptable to do what I had just done, but I didn't care. I cared for nothing. I cared for no one. With my departure to the asylum would come the end of my life. In secret, in darkness, I allowed myself a moment of buildup and a brief time in which pain subsided and the walls drifted away. Suspended temporarily, I relished my escape, felt the rush of blood in my veins. It was the only calm I would experience, the only elation I had ever known.

I wasn't prepared to face what fate lay ahead of me. My new, combative nature sent rage into my heart, and the urgency for freedom overwhelmed my sense of fear. No longer did I want to leave merely because I despised the cellar but because I knew it would anger my father. Now I wanted to anger him. It gratified me.

Young men are foolish. In the most basic sense I was no different.

The years considered my childhood were behind me. I walked into the night, my back straight, my head held high. No longer would I slink and cower. A proud and ignorant ghost, I walked down to the sea, which I had never done before, and washed myself in the water.

It felt as though I had cleansed myself, an unconventional baptism. Water splashed up to my chest and back, droplets cascading down my chin to my neck. With my back to the shore I lifted my mask and felt my hot tears mingle with the cool sea water. I both loved and hated my freedom. It was good to escape confinement, but it was torture to remain in solitude.

The waves pelted me harder, pushed me toward dry land. I respected and feared the water's strength, the endlessness of the ocean. I wanted to be a vast sea—dark, powerful, mysterious…revered, loved…useful. Tempting my fate I lay in the shallow water and inhaled before I plunged into the dark, cool water. Bubbles escaped my mouth and nose, and with the last of my breath I screamed beneath the surface.

When I emerged I was trembling, the outlet for my rage providing only the slightest relief. Naked and alone, I studied my transforming body beneath the moonlight, watched how sheets of water blanketed me and then drifted away. Vulnerable to the monolith I felt surround me, I gave in to my desires, to my need to drown out the agony always lodged within my heart.

My actions toward myself were violent, gratification bordering with pain. When release came I slipped into a lethargic state and allowed my arms to float at my side. My heart rate steadied, my muscles loose, my breaths even. Unashamed, unafraid, I lay in the water and watched the stars. It was a beautiful, serene night, one I wanted to remember forever. A smile pulled at my lips.

My eyes grew heavy, and I had no idea I had been discovered until there was no chance for escape. Three men, all of them drunk, came upon me and dragged me, naked, from the sea. The sand and rocks scraped my bare knees as I struggled, having no idea who had found me or what they would do. I kicked, screamed for my life, for my dignity.

Freedom swiftly turned to humiliation, and for the remainder of my life I carried with me the doubts and hatred, the echoes of taunts and cruelty I had never known existed.


	8. Destroyed

A/N There's one more part to this vignette which I will try to post by Friday. Thanks for reading and reviewing!

Destroyed.

They laughed in delight of their ignorant find, the amorous youth who had no place to sate his needs. Barely able to breathe, I struggled, wrenched my body from side to side until one of them released me and I whipped forward. Rocks dug into my ribs as I fell onto my right side.

"Look at him, Hans. He's still ready," one man said to another.

"Aye, Don Juan himself."

They laughed again, kicked sand at the evidence of my self-induced arousal. I drew my legs toward my chest and despised my traitorous body for its undeniable state. No longer was there desire in my heart, in my loins, in my soul. Now all I wanted was to disappear.

It would not be so easy.

"You waiting for a woman, Don Juan?"

"Hold her to the sand and pump her hard, eh?"

My voice had abandoned me. Prepared only for my father's wrath, I recoiled, turned the right side of my face away. Their presence frightened me far greater than any confrontation with my father. At least I knew his capabilities, but this was far beyond what I had ever known.

One man held his hand to his face, which I thought mocked me. He made a V with his fingers and received a hearty laugh when he wiggled his tongue through the opening.

I forced a smile, attempted a laugh as though I understood the crude meaning—which at the time was mere nonsense. My hope, however, was to find common ground, a way to relate…and then escape.

"He doesn't understand," the man who stood behind me growled.

His voice sent a shiver down my spine.

"Of course he doesn't. Look at him, the filthy urchin."

I wouldn't allow him to see my face, to know my identity. With the last of my strength I sat upright and decided to flee, to return home at once. However, these men had other plans for me, and the one nearest me kicked me in the chest.

The air was knocked from my lungs, the pain I felt like a coal furnace in my ribcage. Tears unexpectedly popped from my eyes and trickled down my face, not in pain but in desperation to breathe. I thought for certain I would suffocate.

My fingers clawed at the sand as I crawled away. Numbness crept over me, replacing everything I felt inside and out. My only defense was to shut down, to leave both body and mind for the safe embrace of nothingness.

I was a worthless shell when the man behind me grabbed a fistful of my hair and pulled my head back. Through glassy eyes and tightened throat, I managed to find my voice. The single word I spoke was a plea, a desperate request for amnesty.

"Father?"

I saw it in his eyes: He was appalled by my presence and wouldn't claim me as his son, not even as his dog. Clearly I had misspoken, overstepped a boundary he would kill me for violating.

He released the tight grip he held on my hair and nudged me in the back with his knee. The other two men stared, their gazes switching between me and my father as though they searched for similarities. Like an animal I crawled away in search of my mask. I no longer cared to find my shirt and trousers. To hell with that. I needed my mask to cover the ugliest, most sinful flesh of all.

"A bastard?" one of the men questioned. He grunted, a heartless chuckle.

"He's a damned liar," my father said under his breath. He smelled of fish and alcohol. I wondered if he'd been to sea. "A worthless, cowardly liar lookin' for a name."

His words stung worse than his fist. I wouldn't have cared if he had hit me there on the beach,as long as he said yes. Yes, this is my son. This pathetic monster is mine, the product of my loins, the flesh and blood of my body. I wanted to belong to him. I didn't know why. My loyalty was given without question.

"Bjorn?"

"I said he's a damned liar! Look at him! My son died as an infant."

Fear and despair gripped me. Was I dead? Perhaps I was a living corpse, a being too vile and disgusting to sleep in a casket in the ground. My thoughts, as erratic as they were, justified his words. He didn't want a dead son. He wanted a live son, a beautiful child.

I found myself teetering on a very thin line between insanity and salvation.

Their amusement vanished, their alcohol-induced mirth slipping dangerously into intolerance. They did look at me, silently criticizing—scrutinizing—my existence. I was on display, laid bare before their eyes. With my legs tucked beneath my body, I bowed my head and placed my hands over my lap.

To my horror, my erection had grown, painful and obvious beneath my spread fingers. Despite my attempts to shift I was immediately discovered, and their mocking laughter was far worse than the void which accompanied solitude.

One of the men stooped down at my side. "If you want to touch it, then touch it. See what it does when you hold it."

My body heaved, but my stomach was empty. Stomach acid filled the back of my throat and I spit.

My father laughed the loudest. "It seems our Don Juan doesn't know what he wants for his little worm. Cal, go find us a drunken, blind bitch and tell her we've found her a man to teach a thing or two."

I had no idea what he meant, why I would ever allow anyone—woman or man—to see me in my present state. I wanted to be left alone. For once I wanted to be alone.

My father slapped the back of my head. His actions angered me but I couldn't find the strength to retaliate, couldn't grasp hold of the one emotion which had brazenly led me to the seaside.

One of the men flicked his wrist out. "We should castrate him." From the corner of my eye I saw a dirty blade, the edge caked in food. "Protect our wives and daughters."

My father shook his head and looked me in the eye. It was as though he stared through me as he had no emotion on his face. Once I lowered my gaze, he spoke.

"They'd never be foolish enough to come near him. No woman, even a blind woman, would lower herself."

His words were the flint which divided fear from anger. My muscles tightened, my sanity unraveled. I wanted to kill him, though for years I would maintain that my desires were not out of hatred, but love. I wanted him as my corpse father, the only way in which I suspected he would accept his corpse son.

"Father," I said once more, my voice low. I only wanted him to hear me, the smallest bond between parent and child. "Father, protect me."

He would not. But ignorantly I hoped he would see past my face and claim me as his own. I held onto my hope well after he stepped away and the man who held the dirty knife towered over me.


	9. Salvation

A/N: This was the hardest chapter yet. I needed a tissue at the end (might be because I'm a little drunk and weepy on cough syrup—stupid summer cold!). Please tell me what you think.

Salvation

All animals struggle to survive, no matter how grave the chance of survival. A stuck pig will squeal, fight its fate until it has bled to death. A cow with its throat slit will attempt to stand and walk from impending danger.

Even with three men towering over me, I refused to die at their hands—at least not without a fight.

My nostrils flared and my blood came to a boil as I rose from my knees to my feet and backed away. I kept my legs bent, my body low. With one fist full of sand and the other armed with a rock, I would postpone the inevitable, bide my time until they were prepared to hold me down and cut me, stab me…at the time I had no idea what else they could have done to me.

To my surprise they stayed at a distance, the three of them standing shoulder to shoulder. They laughed, nudged one another as they stared at me, apparently appreciating the fight I had in me, the unwillingness to wait for my demise.

"Hold him down," my father said. He nodded to his companions, who grimly nodded back.

"Give him a good scare," one of them said.

"A damned good scare," the other added.

I was already frightened out of my skin. While they discussed their intentions I glanced around and searched for my mask, which proved my undoing. Once my attention was drawn away—a mistake I would learn never to make again—they came at me, a wall of drunken, unwashed bodies.

The most pathetic sound escaped my lips as I fell to my knees, my rock and handful of sand discarded. Instinctively I drew my hands to my face and protected myself as best as I could, but outnumbered and vulnerable, I crumbled.

Stunned, I attempted to find up from down. Once I felt the sand beneath my belly I clawed at the ground, my mouth bloody and my head pounding. One of them grabbed me under the arms and threw me onto my back.

All I saw was the knife before my eyes.

I struggled, my feet kicking at the sand, hips twisting back and forth. My eyes bulged though I registered very little from the situation. Weeks would pass before I understood what had happened, how deeply I had been violated.

The knife was inches from my belly button when the three of them suddenly ceased laughing. One last wrenching pull and I freed myself and whimpered as I crawled away on my hands and knees.

"Gentlemen."

A fourth man had arrived upon the beach. I don't know why this fourth presence frightened me more than the three who already held me captive, but I saw little stars before my eyes and felt sickness churn in my gut. Each harsh breath brought me closer and closer to blacking out.

"Who in the hell are you?"

I continued to search for my mask and clothes, but when the fourth individual was questioned, I glanced over my shoulder.

The man met my eye, and his remorseful expression paralyzed me as I remained on my hands and knees.

It was The Shadow.

I didn't know whether to weep in gratitude or in complete humiliation.

One of the men approached him and received a blow to the side of the face. The Shadow moved swiftly—so swiftly that I didn't see him raise his cane and strike the man. My father instantly backed down, and the third man—the one with the knife—dropped his weapon.

"We want no trouble here," my father stammered.

"Of course you do," The Shadow replied, his voice a deep, terrifying rumble. Even I cowered when he held out his cane, his hands gloved, his missing fingers hidden. "Why else would three drunken fools harass a young man?"

"Is he yours?" my father accused.

It was the ultimate betrayal. I shuddered at his words, my muscles growing weak. Just once I wanted him to acknowledge me but he never would. Never. I was ashamed for disappointing him, for my inadequacies. I was a terrible child, always escaping, always disobeying. He was not to blame for his heavy hand.

"If only Fate were kind," The Shadow replied. "This remarkable child would be my son and not yours, Bjorn."

"Take him, Kimmer. There's nothing remarkable about him."

The Shadow moved again, as fight as lightning. His expression changed, the jovial, kind expression no longer existed. He hit my father twice with his cane: Once in the abdomen and then across the face. I crouched lower, fearful of The Shadow's rage and my father's capabilities once he stood and fought back.

But he didn't fight back. I scarcely knew what had happened. At one moment my father was on his knees and the next there was a rope around his neck.

A lasso. I would grow quite familiar with this weapon in weeks to come.

I heard my father choke, squirm for his life. His two brave companions had fled as fast as they could, neither of them giving a damn for their friend.

His death would be the end of my torment. The moment he took his last breath I was free, able to leave his domain and find my tribe, my people.

But I couldn't allow him to die. I stepped forward, still naked, still raw. "Please," I begged. "Please, don't."

The Shadow looked up and stared at me. He didn't say a word, but he questioned me nonetheless.

Over my father's impending death, I quavered, "I love him."

Tears spilled down my cheeks and I sank to the ground and wept. I did love him. Not because he was kind to me, not because he gave me the world, but because he was my father and I had no other man in my life, no other person who possessed this title. He was my father, no matter how much he denied it, how many times he struck me. I did love him. I had to love him and I didn't know why.

"Please, sir, don't kill him," I sobbed.

I sat and cried so long I expected the dawn would rise over the sea. I don't know how long he left me alone to cry or when my father gathered his wits and what was left of his life and fled.

The Shadow placed his hand on my head and placed my clothes beside me, with my mask on top. He didn't say a word for a long moment and I feared he would speak harshly, reprimand me for begging on behalf of my father's life.

"I apologize," I said. I hyperventilated, my sobs turned to hiccups, my tears dried. Only pain existed deep inside of me, a writhing, twisting agony. I was confused by my words and actions, my desire to kill my father and my need to see him live.

"You've done nothing wrong, my child. Dress yourself. We must leave. Swiftly."

I did as he requested, sobbing the entire time. If there was one consolation that night it was knowing my father would never forget me. I only wondered if he would remember I loved him, that I had shown mercy when he had shown none.


	10. Twisted Road

Twisted Path

The Shadow walked down the beach and promised to stay within shouting distance as I stepped into my ragged trousers and splashed water onto my face. He returned as I straightened my mask—the one he had given me—and leaned on his cane.

I couldn't look him in the eye.

"You haven't been to the cemetery for weeks, my child. I feared they had taken you away without allowing me a proper farewell."

I couldn't speak. I felt sick to my stomach with worry though I couldn't pinpoint my fears. Head bowed, I shifted my weight and shivered.

"Did he force you to walk here?"

At last I shook my head.

"You came here willingly?"

Tears pricked my eyes. I didn't want to speak of what had happened, didn't want to think of this night ever again. My only desire was to return to the sea and disappear beneath the murky depths, find an island where I could build my hermit's house and live alone. Leave me alone, I wanted to tell him. Please leave me alone.

But I feared my own company, dreaded the thoughts I felt pushing against the wall I had haphazardly created in my mind. What I needed was an escape…a path away from the looming darkness which had always surrounded me.

I started to cry, though it was no slow buildup of emotion. Ankle-deep in water, I sank to the ground, heedless of how I ruined my filthy clothes. I covered my face, shook without sound, and made myself sick.

Eventually I was aware of The Shadow kneeling beside me. He held one hand on my shoulder and splashed water over my lips.

"Come," he said. "Put on your shirt, my son, it's far too cold."

I obeyed and followed him away from the beach, my gaze steady on my bare feet. He didn't speak until I had stopped sniffling.

"You are not the one who should feel shame."

His words meant little to me. Shame was the basis of my existence. Each small step I'd attempted to take toward manhood was stilted by this night. I was no longer a child and certainly no adult. Where it left me I didn't know, and my hopeless future—one without even death in sight—left me wilted. I was surrounded, contained within a dust mote where the rest of my life vaguely was visible but intangible through the cloud.

But The Shadow would not allow the thoughts which had been resurrected. His arm brushed my shoulder, a subtle reminder of solitude finally broken, of the constant struggle finally put at ease—however briefly.

He looked into my eyes, his face thin. "It's a worthless man indeed, one who causes the suffering of a child. Tell me honestly, my son, did you love him?"

I nodded without conviction and looked away.

"Your loyalty may be your salvation or your greatest curse."

We came upon a small, dilapidated building on what I presumed was the opposite side of town. The smell of fish wasn't as strong here, or perhaps it was masked by the scent of pipe smoke. I grew fond of the aroma, the memories it elicited.

"I had lamb for supper—or perhaps its more fitting to call the poor old beast a sheep." He chuckled when he spoke, and I followed him inside. "There is plenty for you. I considered bringing it with me o my walk, but it's been so long since I've seen you." He glanced at me, a full sweep from head to toe. "In the same clothes, no doubt."

Shamefully I looked away.

"We'll remedy that once you've eaten."

In his tiny kitchen at a table with uneven legs, he brought me clean, fresh water to drink and served me more supper than I'd ever seen in my life. Any moment I expected to wake at the bottom of the stairs in the cellar and discover my fortune was little more than a cruel dream.

The Shadow lit his pipe and straddled a chair. "Come now, my son, you must be starving."

He didn't have to coax me into eating. I undoubtedly would have made myself sick if he hadn't told me to enjoy my meal.

"I cannot guarantee you food such as this once we leave."

Immediately I stopped eating and stared at him with uncertainty. For the first time I noticed how the whites of his eyes were indeed yellow, but his face was thin and pleasant. He didn't look like a man who would prove dangerous to three drunken bullies, yet he had warded off my attackers.

Still, I couldn't look away from his yellowed eyes until he blinked. It startled me, and once I finally gathered my wits I stared at my half-empty plate while The Shadow sat forward and leaned on his elbow.

"I apologize, child as it appears I've given you few choices in the matter." He paused, waited for me to speak, which I did not. "I'm afraid I've made it nearly impossible for you to return home or slip unnoticed into the confines of an asylum."

"I don't want to go to an asylum." My first words since we'd left the beach were spoken in desperation. The fork clattered from my grasp and fell onto the table before it landed on the floor. Horrified, I dove under the table and retrieved it, afraid he'd reprimand me for my clumsiness.

When I looked up again he merely sat and watched me, not in anger but with curiosity.

"You move very quickly," he said. He appeared amused. "But you should understand by now, my child, I have no intention to harm you. If I had chosen to do so I would have walked to the pier and offered you to the sailors and lonely fishermen, many of whom would just as soon find pleasure in the arms of a child as they would in a woman. It wouldn't have earned me much, but it would have been enough for a meal or two. They know me well. They'd trust in my wares."

My understanding was fractured, though I knew enough to feel my muscles tense and my breath to pause in my lungs. _Offered, pleasure, woman. Trust…_

"There is no need for me to keep you a moment longer if I merely wanted to murder you or put you to use elsewhere."

"Why do you help me?"

He rose to his feet and left his pipe on the table. Once he wiped his hands on his pants he motioned for me to follow him. Still uncertain, untrusting—as there were too many years of betrayal to be undone in one night—I treaded lightly to the end of the hall and watched him light a candle.

He pushed open the door and stood before a cramped room.

"This belonged to my son."

The air smelled strange in the room. I didn't recognize the smell of abandonment and disuse, of a closed space which hadn't been opened in many years.

There was a cradle against the wall and a wooden toy on the floor.

"Pneumonia," he answered before I dared to ask. He sighed heavily and I looked away, my eyes fixed on the small toys in the corner. "He had a terrible affliction to his spine. Left him unable to stand all four years of his life, but he never seemed miserable. He learned to pull himself across the floor—all the way down the hall, in fact, where he'd sit with his siblings and listen to me play the violin."

I frowned. I'd never see his violin again. I felt as though I'd failed him.

The Shadow nodded as though he understood my concerns. "He died a month after his mother passed away. I've never forgotten either of them."

"What was his name?" I questioned.

"His name was my name."

He left his mysterious answer hanging in the air as he walked into the room and looked around. He appeared melancholy, which was expected, but the emotion didn't engulf him. He still appeared hopeful. I didn't understand.

"Your name is Kimmer?"

He turned and faced me. With a nod, he smiled. "Aye, it is my surname. Your father knows it quite well. He used to answer to it long ago, before he found more interest in a bottle than a fishing net."

The food had settled in my belly, and just as before, I was willing to speak. "You called my Kimmer's son."

"That I did. Do you prefer Erik, my child?"

"I don't know." I blurted out. Then I shook my head. "No. I don't prefer Erik." In fact I hated my name suddenly because it was what my parents called me. The pendulum swung in my heart and I hated them. For years I would feel this wrenching pull of love and hate.

"It's a good name. If you wish to call yourself Erik then do so, but if you wish for a different name, then you tell me what I am to call you." He walked toward me and gently squeezed my shoulder. I hadn't the nerve to ask him for his first name, the one which I wanted for myself. "This room has not seen a child in it for many, many years. But tonight it shall be your room, my son. Rest yourself. We shall leave at nightfall."

"Leave?" My heart began to race.

"And God willing we shall never return."


	11. Escape

Giver11

I adjusted quite easily from the cellar to a home above the ground, and though it was only for a night, my mood changed tremendously.

My eyelids were heavy but I continued to gaze upon the room. The Shadow, as I still referred to him, had obviously loved his son. The room, though small, was furnished with not only a baby cradle, but a small child's bed. The Shadow brought me a pillow and closed the curtains. He also brought me a shirt, which was far too large, and an old pair of trousers he said he would have taken in and shortened before we took our leave.

"Where will you travel?" I yawned.

"We," he corrected, "shall travel through Europe. East, I believe. Does the eastern world interest you, my boy?"

I nodded and a smile touched my lips. I had choices. For once I had decisions of my own to make, ones which would dictate my life, my feelings, my fate.

"Rest. We will leave sooner than you think."

He left me then and I changed into a long nightshirt. I literally fell into bed, my eyes closing the moment I hit the pillow. The linens smelled stale, but they were soft and warm. I balled my fists around the fabric and curled my legs to my chest. I'd almost forgotten to remove my mask, as it was comfortable against my skin.

Again I felt tears prick my eyes but no longer were my emotions centered around grief. Lack of fear had vanquished my anger and uncertainty. For once I felt a sense of contentment. I slept quite soundly, never fearing footsteps and a creaking staircase, the smell of alcohol and body odor. I was safe.

Just as The Shadow had promised, peaceful sleep came long before I was prepared to leave the comfort of a real bed. The sun had already set, a hazy twilight peering through the bottom of the curtain. Crickets chirped somewhere and gulls cried in the distance. It felt more like a dream than my life. I wondered if I had died and not realized it. This seemed as close to heaven as I would ever be allowed.

While I rested I heard whispers outside my window and recognized his voice. Still half-asleep, I caught little of what was said and I had no idea who he spoke to, but I knew the subject of their conversation.

"Bjorn never deserved a child." The Shadow spoke with firmness. Even without seeing him—or possibly because I didn't see him—I held my breath. His was a voice which commanded respect. His tone was suited for a man seven feet in height and three hundred pounds of solid girth. I learned much from him.

"I heard his son has a marked face."

There was a long pause. "One would not readily notice this boy's face. He's a bag of bones, and the marks Bjorn gave him on his back and chest are far worse than what happened at his birth. Perhaps only God knows the truth."

"You're fortunate he hasn't killed you. You've humiliated him."

To this The Shadow snorted. "He's fortunate I haven't killed him."

Moments later I heard The Shadow walk into the house. He whistled as he approached the bedroom where I lay staring at the ceiling. When he knocked on the door I jumped, startled by the sound.

"Y-yes?"

He chuckled. "Good evening, my boy." His voice had changed again, this time turning jovial. "You have a decision to make."

I sat up, wondering if he'd send me away. Perhaps he discovered I would prove far too much trouble and not enough worth. With uncertainty I reached for my mask and covered my face in preparation…for what I didn't know.

"You may sleep for another hour or you may join me for a very late breakfast."

I immediately walked to the door and opened it. He must have noticed the ravenous look in my eyes at the promise of food. It had always swayed me like nothing else possibly could.

"Raspberry jam," he said with a smile. His yellowed eyes creased when he spoke. "With warmed bread."

My mouth watered. "Jam?"

He nodded. "It's from England. Came off a ship this afternoon." He gave a casual shrug. "Unless you would rather have supper."

"I would like jam," I blurted out.

His smile widened. "Then jam it is."

I dressed swiftly and emerged from the bedroom to the smell of scrambled eggs and ham in the air. I sniffed so hard I made myself short of breath.

The Shadow treated me as though I were an old friend he hadn't seen in years. He told stories of his life aboard a fishing vessel, the weeks turned to months he spent at sea. Sometimes it was with a handful of fishermen, but often it was alone. Camaraderie easily came through our shared solitude. The longer I listened to him speak the more I saw a man who was lonely and who had lost much in his life.

I'd never felt comfortable around people, mostly because the only people I had ever been around were my father and my mother. My father cared little for me and my mother feared my presence. I learned to keep my gaze down when I was near them.

But The Shadow was animated when he spoke. He moved frequently, often gesturing with his hands or shifting in his seat. He spoke as he chewed food on one side of his mouth, and had he been able to throw his voice I have no doubt he would have continued speaking as he drank his water.

When we finished our meal he explained that a great deal of our travel would take place on foot and asked if I could walk great distances. As to not be left behind, I nodded readily.

"From dusk until dawn?" he questioned.

"Yes, sir."

"Then you will reach our destination far sooner than I."

He laughed and slapped the table with his hand, which startled me. I had no idea why he laughed, but I felt heat rise up my neck and to my cheeks. I had misspoken. I just didn't know how.

"I have no intention of walking the night through. We shall walk until either my knees or my heart give out." He smiled again, but this time it lacked mirth. Something wasn't right, but I was far too ignorant a child to know he was ill. Truthfully, his eyes should have given it away.

We stayed for another hour in his home until "the night was plenty dark" as he said. He packed a single bag for himself and one for me, which contained enough food for the next three days. Once we were prepared, we sat by his fire and he tied different knots, entertaining me with various tricks.

"The rope," I said. "You tied it differently…on the beach."

He nodded and I was grateful I didn't have to specify I was interested in how he had nearly strangled my father.

"It's weighted," he explained. He looked at me, searched my eyes. "You must have quick reflexes in order to use this type of…defense."

I swallowed and gave a nod.

Without warning, The Shadow threw the rope at me and it hooked on my wrist. He pulled it tight.

"A magic lasso," he said quietly. "I do believe you are quick as a cat, my child."


	12. The Tribe

I don't thank my NDBRs enough. Thanks to Teresa for editing, Jaxboo for her suggestions, and Andersm and MadLizzy for their comments. Turned a "good" chapter into a much better chapter, in my opinion.

The Tribe

The Shadow steadied my life. Strangely, it was through his freedom that I found strict rules and guidance—both of which I would break, ignore, and finally resurrect.

We set off together and traveled by night through town, where I found myself staring at my parents' home. I thought it was a dirty trick and instantly dug my heels into the dirt, but he looked at me and nodded.

"Shall I retrieve your violin?"

My mouth dropped open but no sound emerged.

"You may remain beneath this tree, if you wish. I will only be a moment."

I forced myself to nod and watched as he strolled forward, cane in hand. With nothing else to do, I clutched my pack of food and held my breath.

The moment the door opened I heard my mother scream and I shuddered. She cursed, her high-pitched voice threatening to tear the night in half.

My father appeared and shoved her aside. The door slammed behind him, which sent me into hiding behind the tree.

"You were never worth a damn, you stupid bastard."

The Shadow gave a single nod. "Nor you. Lazy, ignorant, prone to fighting and fond of the bottle…you were no good to me as a fisherman."

My father spit in his face, and I crept from my hiding place. I thought for certain The Shadow would kill him, but he didn't move. It was as though he hadn't noticed. I was mesmerized by him and repulsed by my uncouth father.

"What will you tell people, eh?" The Shadow asked. "Most certainly your _friends_ will question you."

"They'll forget soon enough."

"Not all men are as ignorant as you."

My father shifted his weight. "I'm ignorant? I'm not the one who fought on behalf of some faceless—"

Fast as lighting, The Shadow cracked him across the face with the back of his hand. "What would you call him, Bjorn?"

"A disgusting excuse for human life."

"You speak of yourself, you stupid ass. He's taught himself to read, he's taught himself how to play the violin…I would not be so impressed if I didn't know whose house he'd come from—or rather, whose cellar."

"He's a goddamned liar!"

The Shadow grabbed him by the throat. "I've seen for myself."

My breath hitched, my eyes bulged in fear of what he knew. It embarrassed me to think he had known for even a day that my life, my existence, was trapped beneath the ground. I wanted him to think well of me, to find me worthy. I didn't understand his compassion. If he left me…where would I go?

The pack I'd held slipped from my shoulder and fell beside me, an apple rolling into the grass.

"I've watched him return home at night, seen him slink into your hell. You've given him nothing, not a damned thing. Why?"

"Look at him." My father's voice had become a whimper, a plea for mercy. "No woman will ever want him. Even the church refused him. He's better off dead. You're a fool to think otherwise."

My heart dropped. I still hoped for my father's affection, for one word of praise before I was gone.

"I was a fool to believe he was dead. The grave…yes…it was proof. But you never mourned, did you?"

"You don't know what hell I've been to with _him_."

The Shadow shook his head. "You created his hell. I gave my son—"

"Your dead son."

I shuddered at my father's callous words.

"You are no judge of character or wit. I shouldn't expect good sense from you, Bjorn." The Shadow released him. "You never saw our father's genius in your own son, did you?"

I couldn't breathe as his words registered. _Our father_. Ours. They were brothers…I was The Shadow's nephew. I had family. I had a tribe.

My father lunged for him but he stepped aside, and with a heavy thud my father fell onto the sidewalk. My father squirmed, writhed beneath the cane The Shadow held over him.

"You see nothing at all, Bjorn. Nothing." He glared at the opened front door and then stormed through. I watched, completely dumbfounded, as my mother ran down the steps to my father and scolded him.

"He'll rob us blind, that monster!"

With my back against the tree and my heart racing, I shoved the apple into my pack and stared at the night's sky. I counted the stars as I arched my back, feeling old scars criss-cross my spine. There were four I could locate with ease. I felt as though I knew mercy.

The Shadow blocked my view of the sky and showed me the violin case. He helped me to my feet and held it out. I took it immediately, hugged it to my body.

"We may leave now."

"Th-thank you."

"You're welcome, my son." He placed his hand on the top of my head and gentle squeezed, a gesture which comforted me—and would one day comfort my son.

We set off down the road and I studied him a moment. More so than ever I was comforted by his presence. He was much thinner than my father from his torso to the hairs on his head. I thought, at least from the neck down, I resembled him closely. For once I was proud of myself because I wanted to absorb his every word and nuance.

"Are we walking to the Orient?" I asked.

"Tonight." He smiled, his arm brushing my shoulder. "We'll have to walk much faster than we are now, my child."

"You've been there before?"

"I've been everywhere."

My gaze lowered. "I've been nowhere."

He nodded. "I've been there as well."

The road proved more interesting, and neither of us spoke until the smell of fish turned to the fresh, tangy scent of mowed grass. Cattle watched us, and a dog guarding sheep barked his warning.

"Are you really…?" I questioned suddenly, but I couldn't bring myself to finish the question.

"I am a ghost," he whispered. He didn't look at me when he spoke.

We walked until first light.


	13. A Road of Blood, pt 1

A Road of Blood, Part One

By the end of the first night my feet were not blisters, they were raw and bloody. Still, I walked on, my teeth gritted and nostrils flared in determination. Each step hurt, but I feared being left behind far greater than I feared pain.

Physical pain, after all, I could tolerate. Solitude, I could not.

"We shall stop here for the night," he announced as I lingered several steps behind him. He walked off the road and slung his pack behind several tall, shady trees. I followed in silence and dropped my pack beside his.

"Stay here. I'll find water suitable for drinking. If there's any fish, we'll fry some up and dine like kings upon the road. The food in the packs we'll save for when there's nothing."

I nodded sullenly and waited for him to walk away. Once I heard his footsteps fade I removed my mask and wiped my face with the back of my hand. At last I sat and removed my shoes. Unbidden tears streamed down my face as I placed my ankle on the opposite knee and examined the broken blisters along my big toe and the back of my heel.

It would be hell to walk come nightfall. With my flesh so raw I could possibly make it through half the night, but then what would happen? I knew—yes, I knew—there would be no great adventure for me. I would crawl like an animal and hope he waited for this unwanted child.

The thought of being left behind made me double over on the ground. I hated myself for this. But I didn't know what 'this' was or how I could have changed it.

"Oh, child."

He came upon me unexpectedly and gasped. Startled, I squinted at his form as he stood with his back to the rising sun. The sky was bright pink, which didn't bode well. A storm was on its way.

"Why didn't you tell me?" he asked. He crouched beside me and grasped my leg at the ankle. With a frown, he sighed. "I should have known."

My eyes lowered. I had angered him.

"You're not accustomed to walking great distances. I should have stopped hours ago, my boy. I apologize for keeping you on your feet for so long."

His reaction left me stunned. It was still beyond comprehension that anyone would apologize to me.

"There is a stream not more than twenty paces from here. I'll help you walk down to the water's edge and you can cool your feet a while as I find us breakfast."

He grasped my arm and helped me stand. I found I could walk on my heels as long as I kept my arm over his shoulder.

Once I stood by the shoreline I rolled up my pant legs and entered the cool water. I hadn't realized my feet burned until I stood upon the smooth stones with The Shadow still at my side. After a moment he nodded for me to sit on a rock jutting out from the water, which I did gladly.

As he started a fire and boiled water, I rocked back and soothed my feet. There were birds in every tree, and I listened as they cawed in disapproval of our presence. Every so often The Shadow would whistle, then grin as he imitated the birds. Soon I did the same, and as the sky turned a dull gray-pink, I sat comfortably and enjoyed the early morning.

The Shadow had caught two small fish and one larger, which he gutted and skewered over the small fire. He brought our food to the water and sat beside me.

"It's been years since I've had fish," he said as he sprinkled salt and pepper on his meal. He asked if I wanted spices and I nodded even though I didn't care for salt. "I was a fisherman all my life. All the days at sea…" he shook his head. "I would step outside when my wife made supper on the nights she put fish on the table." He smiled and chuckled to himself. "It surprises me that she didn't serve tuna nightly."

"How did she die?" I asked suddenly.

His face clouded. "It was her time. Illness took her, and the angel of music swept in and plucked her from my arms."

Even when he had made the comment about her serving the food he hated, I could tell by the twinkle in his eyes that he loved her dearly. I'd never heard a man speak of a woman with such fondness in his voice.

"The angel of music?" I questioned.

"Aye, my child. He knew she was very ill and didn't want her to suffer alone."

"Why didn't the angel of death come for her?"

He smiled thinly. "The angel of death is sinister. She much preferred an angel of comfort, which only a spirit with a violin could provide."

His words haunted me for quite some time.

"What does she look like?"

He stared at me a moment. "No one has ever seen this angel. It is as we believe. Long hair, short hair, tall, short…it doesn't matter. Our minds provide much clearer vision than these." He pointed at his eyes. "Beauty, my child, is here." He pointed at his heart.

I felt hopeful. Perhaps there was something good inside of me.

We left the stream and made camp beneath the trees. The ground was cushioned by ferns, the air sweet with the scent of cut wheat. I replaced my mask and lay with my hands behind my head.

"You look like a young tom cat stretched out for his nap," he commented. "And I look like an old dog standing by."

As exhausted as I was, I couldn't sleep. The smell of the river and the heady scent of dirt and foliage were new to me and worth exploring. I wanted to examine the world around me, but my raw feet kept me still. After a while I realized was grateful to lie down and rest my aching back. My feet continued to throb, especially when there was no water to cool my soles.

The Shadow talked about his time upon the seas, the peril he faced daily, and the storms he encountered.

"There were times when I prayed to both Aegir and Neptune," he said with a wink. "And when neither answered, I held on for dear life."

I folded my hands across my stomach and watched the leaves tremble above my head. "I like the water."

"Yes, I've seen."

My face straightened. I wasn't certain if he mocked me for my folly by the sea the previous night. It embarrassed and shamed me to have no secrets. Yet another facet in which I was different, in which I was wrong.

"You need gills, Erik." He shifted onto his side. "You would make an excellent fish, too smart for the hook or net." He motioned with his hand like a fish through the water. "Forever free to roam. I think all men would prefer to be fish…as long as there was a sea full of beautiful mermaids. I saw a mermaid once, a very long time ago. And then I met my wife, and never did I look at mermaids again."

He rambled for a while, telling stories—or truths, as he called them. He recited poetry, offered bits and pieces of Shakespeare's sonnets, which I later discovered The Shadow had either misquoted or made up entirely.

Eventually I drifted to sleep with my head resting on my pack. My dreams were filled with violins and feathers. I imagined a faceless angel. With such beauty inside it needed no eyes and nose, no mouth and chin. It was perfect unseen.

It was almost dark when I woke to the sound of voices. The Shadow was already awake and aware. He looked at me and placed his finger to his lips. I had no intention of making a sound.

I waited for him to protect me.


	14. A Road of Blood, pt 2

Road of Blood, pt 2.

I doubt I took a breath while I waited for The Shadow to return. Never had I placed my trust in anyone, which left me unable to truly comprehend what I had done. Perhaps my father had returned to claim me. Perhaps he'd changed his mind and decided to sell me.

No, I told myself, he wouldn't betray me. If only I could believe my new-found mantra. Trust him, believe him. We were related. We were a tribe. Surely he would protect one of his own.

Quiet as I could, I adjusted my mask. As my eyes adjusted, I sat up and listened to the murmur of voices. Either they spoke too low for me to hear or they were speaking a language I didn't understand. It didn't matter. More so than ever I was terrified of what would happen—not only to me, but to my uncle.

How would I help him? My legs were no longer useful, and though I was strong and tall for my age, I was no fighter. Not yet.

There was no rope in sight, which further alarmed me. I knew I could tie a knot and I had no doubt I could ensnare one individual, but again, I was no match for more than one. From the little I could hear there was more than two.

The Shadow suddenly appeared through the trees and grinned. "Strawberries," he said jovially. "They are looking for a place to stop for the night. I offered to help them fish."

My mouth watered as he showed me a handful of plump, red strawberries. I licked my lips in anticipation.

"Stay here," he instructed. He handed me three and popped the fourth into his mouth. He smiled and crouched down beside me. "They're gypsies, very suspicious of everything." He met my eye and paused, his voice lowered. "I've told them these marks are from your father. That is all they need to know."

I nodded even though I didn't understand what he meant.

"I see they have several children with them. The company will do us both good, especially you. A boy needs young companions, not an old man."

With a firm squeeze to my shoulder he stood and lumbered through the brush. One by one, torches appeared through a screen of bushes and leaning trees. It was no longer just the two of us. There were many faces, many pairs of eyes staring at me. The look of concern and uncertainty was evident. They didn't care for me, and I feared them.

Swallowing, I drew my knees to my chest and recoiled. Still, they stepped closer until a line of men, women, and children had formed in front of me.

"Erik," The Shadow called out. "Introduce yourself."

I didn't move. My contact with others was limited to my parents and now my uncle. An entire fleet of strangers overwhelmed me and I refused to look at them or speak.

"Disease," an old woman hissed. "Beware both the yellow-eyed man and the scarred child."

The Shadow returned as the old woman made the sign of the cross. "If you fear us, then you have every right to continue down the road, friends. We have no desire to pack our camp yet, and there are plenty of trees and ferns for you to call your home this eve."

He walked to me and handed me more strawberries, ignoring the whispers I found magnified in my ears. "Eat. They have received ample explanation. I will give them nothing more."

When I looked him in the eye I noticed how exhausted he appeared. I wondered if we would depart late in the night. Secretly I wished to leave at once but I couldn't bear to stand, much less walk.

"Would you like to fish?" he questioned.

I nodded because I wanted to help him and I didn't want to be alone with the gypsies. He helped me to my feet, and together we returned to the stream and the same rock where we had sat earlier. Wisely I saved one of the bigger strawberries for later. I wanted to savor it, my treasure.

The gypsies ventured further down the road, for which I was glad. From the corner of my eye I watched their children scramble after each other and splash through the water. The younger boys stripped naked, dove into the stream, and tossed rocks into the water, much to the aggravation of their mothers.

I noticed they stayed upstream from us as though they feared we would contaminate the water. Eventually they returned to their camp, and the night was cool and peaceful. The Shadow went in search of morel mushrooms but promised he would stay near. He left me with both packs and told me to guard them well. With a wink to me and his cane at hand, he shuffled through the trees.

After a while I sat back and closed my eyes. Fish eluded me, and I lost interest in catching them. The ripple of water and a symphony of unseen crickets put me at ease. My feet felt better and I decided to test my legs. Eyes still closed, I stretched out my feet.

When I stepped on something soft, I pulled back and gasped. The olive-skinned girl who stood before me seemed equally frightened.

Turning away, I hugged the packs to my chest. My heart had started to pound, my muscles bunched.

"Is it true?" she questioned, her voice soft and low. "Are you cursed?"

Without looking at her I shook my head. I wasn't cursed. I was damned.

"Pass silver over my palm and I will tell your fortune."

I looked at her suddenly, my curiosity piqued. The moonlight revealed her long features. She reminded me of a horse. "Pass silver?"

She nodded and extended her hand. I didn't know what to do, so I stared at her.

"Haven't you any silver?"

"No."

She frowned and shifted her weight. "Anything of value?"

My eyes widened. Quite proudly I showed her the last strawberry.

"Anyone can pick those."

"Then go pick one yourself."

She hesitated. Unexpectedly she reached for the strawberry and popped it in her mouth. I was too stunned to say a word. The little imp had stolen what was mine.

As swiftly as I wanted to push her in the water I was disarmed. She grasped my hand and spread my fingers.

"Veeery interesting," she cooed.

I was fascinated beyond words or thought. Mouth agape, I watched her cradle my hand. She looked into my eyes and smiled thinly. Her index finger traced a line from the center of my hand to my smallest finger.

My man's body outsmarted my child's mind. One simple touch had awakened me and I placed my arm across my hips to hide my arousal. I didn't think she was particularly beautiful or enticing, but her touch was enough. I was unaccustomed to such gentleness that it didn't matter what she looked like. It fascinated me.

"This is the head line. Look at how it sweeps down. You are very creative, no?"

I nodded. She knew me. I was certain.

She seemed satisfied with my answer and glanced at her own hand. There was a crescent moon painted on the inside of her wrist.

"And below it is the heart line." She shook her head. "This isn't good."

"What isn't good?" I feared her answer.

"You love very deeply and you're faithful."

"That's…bad?"

"It shows much disappointment in love."

My fingers closed but she opened my hand again.

"This." She touched below my smallest finger and followed a line toward my middle finger. "Is the marriage line. My, you will have a long marriage, a good, strong marriage." She tapped my hand. "With many children."

"How many?" I blurted out.

"For now only one. But it could change." She furrowed her brow. "Ah, and what's this I see? A strawberry stain. You love sweets."

My face burned. She had mocked me in the end.

"You will lead a most interesting life. That is all I can reveal to you."

"My hand has told you all of this?" I stared at my open palm, at the lines which had never meant much to me. Children, marriage, artistic…I marveled at her words.

"It is all it will tell me for the compensation of a single strawberry."

I slouched on my rock for a moment. I wanted to know more, to keep her near a moment longer. There had to be more she could reveal, but I didn't know how to persuade her. Before I could devise a plan, the old woman appeared at the water's edge and shouted.

"Dukkera!"

The girl swatted my hand, which startled me. I stared, mouth agape, from the girl to the old woman.

"He wouldn't let me go!" the girl shrieked.

"No." I shook my head. No other words would leave my mouth. Perhaps I understood there was nothing I could say in my defense.

"He's a wicked child."

The old woman yanked the girl by the arm and slapped her face. "He is diseased. You put your family at great risk, Dukkera."

Tears streamed down her face, but the old woman didn't appear to take pity on the girl. Instead she stared at me, her eyes cold and hard. Again I shook my head. I wasn't at fault. Why did the girl lie after she had told my fortune?

Eventually they retreated to their camp. Alone and devastated, I continued to stare at my hand. There would be no wife and children. She was little more than a storyteller offering beautiful fabrications to an ignorant boy.

When The Shadow returned I was angry. I thought it was at him because he had not returned and rescued me. It was a long time before I realized I was angry with myself for trusting a strange girl whose only magic was in the tips of her fingers.

"How do your feet feel?"

I offered no words. Frustrated, I turned my face away.

He exhaled and crossed his arms. For a long while we remained in silence. Deep inside I felt my guts writhing. I wanted to apologize, to ask him where he had been, but I was too stubborn to say a word. Instead, I allowed my anger to boil.

"We should leave soon."

I stretched my legs out and touched the rocks with the balls of my feet. It didn't hurt. Of course, the balls of my feet weren't blistered.

"You are fortunate her father and uncles didn't come to her side to save her, my son. It would been like a fawn facing wolves."

My throat tightened. I knew then that I could not exist in the world. My place was locked in a cellar, where I was protected from the world and its deceptions. I would not survive alone.

"Her grandmother saw her approach you. No one will trust the girl again, least of all you."

"Why did she blame me?" I blurted out. I faced him, desperately seeking answers.

"To save herself from trouble." He took his seat beside me. "It had nothing to do with you. She saw an opportunity for gain and accepted it. Nothing more."

It was a repulsive concept, but I was nonetheless fascinated by it.

He smiled. "Call it…survival." He tapped his fingers on his knees before he slung his pack over his shoulder and handed me the second one. "Come, I have a something to show you."

We walked across the road to the opposite side, then weaved through the trees. The woods opened to a field, and tied to the fence was a donkey.

"Have you ever ridden?" he asked me.

I shook my head. Slowly I approached the animal and saw its ears flick back.

"Then you are in for an experience, my boy."

He helped me to climb the fence and sit astride the animal. "Who does it belong to?" I asked.

"No one. I found him."

My luck had seemingly changed. I ran my hand over the donkey's neck and rubbed its dusty coat. Animals had always fascinated me, whether they were birds, dogs, or horses. This was the closest I had ever been to a beast of burden, but I immediately convinced myself that this animal trusted me.

Once both packs were fitted onto the donkey's back, we cut through the field. I leaned forward as the animal bumbled along, and I scratched behind its giant ears. There was a mark behind its right ear, which I couldn't see in the darkness. I traced it with my fingers several times until I was certain I knew the design.

A crescent moon.

I glanced back to make certain no one followed us. The way was clear, the night quiet. The only disturbance was within me.


	15. A Very Deep Sleep

I'm very proud of this chapter and would really appreciate hearing what you think of this vignette. If you enjoyed it—or even if you didn't—I would love to find feedback waiting in my virtual mailbox. Gabrina

A Very Deep Sleep

"I believe you've grown a head taller in a week," The Shadow commented as we made camp early one evening.

With a close-lipped smile I collapsed beside him and stretched out. Whether or not I had grown taller didn't matter. I felt bigger in every way. In the presence of my tribe I had flourished.

"Lead our large-eared friend to water, my boy. I'll start us a fire and warm our food."

My feet had healed completely, but we kept the donkey with us. He bit and kicked at The Shadow, but he'd taken a liking to me and didn't give me trouble. With a click of my tongue against the roof of my mouth I tugged on the rope tied round his neck and led him to a creek. There I sat while fireflies illuminated the dusk, my mind free and my spirits high. While the donkey slurped down water, I stretched out my hand before my face. The rosy hue of twilight painted my hands, and I spread my fingers as though I could capture the blush.

Instead I caught a firefly on the tip of my thumb and watched it crawl across my flesh. The sensation was strange to me, never before experienced. Years in a cellar had left me with plenty of sickening memories of unseen creatures, but this was not unpleasant. It was fascinating to watch it move, feel its tiny legs. I chuckled to myself and watched it take flight. On a mild evening I'd reached the pinnacle of my boyhood. An otherwise dark chapter at last had found a worthwhile note. I could close this book with satisfaction.

The donkey brayed at me, a sure sign he was prepared to leave the creek and settle in for the night. I allowed the rope to remain loose as I led him back to The Shadow, who had tomatoes and wild onions sizzling over the fire. Venison, which he'd traded a bushel of strawberries to obtain, was soon added to the pan.

"Here." He handed me a fork and moved away from the fire. With his pack behind his head, he lay back and watched me stir the food. "Good, my child. Add more water if it starts to stick to the bottom."

With great care I stirred our supper, carefully measuring the amount of water I added. The Shadow closed his eyes, and after a while I heard him begin to snore. He'd slept early the previous evening, exchanging our nightly walks for daily journeys. I didn't question the change, but he had explained nonetheless.

"This body," he said, "is weary. Thank God each day for your youth and stamina."

I doubted it was age that slowed his pace and ended our progress prematurely. His gait was lethargic, his face lean and eyes hollow. As each night became dawn I expected to see a skeleton beside me.

Despite my trepidation I said nothing of his appearance. It seemed respectful, especially since he looked me in the eye and never flinched or blanched—not even when I removed my mask and wiped sweat from my forehead.

"Uncle," I called.

He didn't wake.

I left my fork in the pan and removed it from the fire. "Uncle."

Again, there was no response. I leaned forward to grasp his arm and my foot hit the pan. Not once did my eyes leave his face as I didn't care if I spilled my supper and starved for the night. He needed to wake at once.

"Uncle!" I shouted, my voice trembling.

His eyes popped open and he glanced around. With a sigh of relief I let my shoulders sag.

"My, I must have fallen asleep for a spell."

Lips pursed,I nodded. My heart felt heavy as a stone.

"What is wrong, Erik? You look pale as a ghost."

Suddenly I wasn't hungry anymore, despite our food being freshly cooked. With my back against a tree, I stared at him a moment.

"You were deep asleep," I said under my breath.

"Yes." He nudged my plate closer to my feet. "Good food should never go to waste."

Reluctantly I picked up my plate and fork. From the corner of my eye I watched him, memorized the way he cut his food and held his plate. I would copy his every move, absorb each turn of his wrist, rehearse the manner in which he spoke.

I needed to learn swiftly and feared there was not enough time. We both knew he was dying, but neither of us wished to say it. A nameless disease had yellowed his eyes and skin, making him unable to withstand long hours of walking. My hope was that by ignoring his condition it would no longer loom over the nights we shared.

Indeed, it only made it worse. Each second that ticked by weighed upon us, sapped the joy from our kinship. I wanted to cling to him, to toss my arms around his neck and plead with him to stay and find his health. But my feelings were muddled, and as much as I wanted his attention I also considered ignoring him. If I could walk away from him, perhaps I would forget our time together. I wanted immunity from feelings, especially the deep fissure I felt building within my chest.

Once we finished our meal I lay awake and watched him breathe. When at last my own eyes could no longer stay open, I succumbed to the night and hoped his heart would continue to beat. I feared that if his stopped, mine would as well.


	16. A Borrowed Ring

NDBRS: Minor changes, mostly at the very end.

Giver16

A Borrowed Ring

For two weeks we took turns riding the donkey and following the roads and rivers across the countryside until the smell of the ocean was a distant memory.

"Should I name him?" I asked my uncle one late afternoon.

"Yes," he answered. "Next week's supper if he doesn't keep walking."

I named him Moon instead because of the mark on his ear, although he never answered to it. He responded better to "You stupid beast", which my uncle constantly said under his breath. With a grin he said it was a more suitable name, though he didn't disagree with the name I had given the animal.

"Names are important," he said to me. Strangely,I didn't know his.

With each passing day I walked longer and rode less. My legs were stronger, my steps quicker. When I looked at my reflection in a stream I noticed the physical changes in my appearance. No longer was I a scrawny, underfed child bitten by fleas and unkempt from weeks spent in solitude. My hair needed to be cut, but I had gained weight and grown taller. My arms and shoulders were sinewy from labor, my legs thicker from hours of walking.

When I bathed I scrubbed tanned arms, void of bruises. It amazed me that I was capable of healing so completely. I'd thought the deep, black contusions would last a lifetime. In a way they would, but not on the surface. I hadn't figured out how to remove those yet, but in time, with The Shadow's guidance, I knew I could erase them all.

For once I looked at myself and felt a sense of pride.

Each day ended with a visit to a lake or acreek—whichever was nearest. We washed our clothes, caught our food, and enjoyed each other's company. Sometimes we said little, other times he told me stories and grinned as I hung on each word.

"Do I bore you, my child?" he asked one day as he beat his shirt against a rock.

I shook my head. I could listen to him for hours and never be bored—even if he told the same story twice.

"Good, because by tomorrow I'll have run out of stories." He winked and stood, tossing his shirt beside his pants. "It's so hot I'm surprised the river hasn't boiled all the fish."

I nodded and wrung out my shirt. Perspiration dripped down my forehead and lingered between my mask and my face. It caused my skin to itch but I didn't dare remove my only covering. We had seen boys hunting on the outskirts of a nearby farm. Until I was certain they were gone, I would suffer.

"Erik, do you hear that?" The Shadow whispered.

I froze, holding my breath to listen. I heard nothing.

"It sounds like…a mocking bird. Do you hear it?" He pointed toward the tree branches overhead and I curiously followed his gaze.

One by one I studied the gnarled branches but there was nothing but an angry red squirrel. I was about to tell my uncle that I couldn't find it when water splashed up and soaked my clothes and hair.

Mouth agape, I stood on the rocks and stared at the bubbles in the water before he emerged, his hair plastered to his face. He laughed to himself, flicked his wet fingers at me, and dared me to join him.

I couldn't toss my clothes aside fast enough. With a grin as wide as the river, I catapulted into the water, knees tucked to my chest in order to send a wave across the banks. When I dove in I sank to the bottom and felt the smooth, cool rocks against my toes. Bubbles emerged from my nostrils as I lingered beneath the surface and watched the last rays of sun dance along the ripples.

"Ah, this is better than listening to an old man ramble," he said as he waded toward me. "My son—the youngest one—he could listen as you do. But the older one never cared much for an old windbag." He laughed to himself. "Such different personalities for boys who looked like twins, yet born years apart."

"What were their names?" I blurted out.

He smiled, a morose expression. "The oldest was named Joshua. The youngest was Matthew. Their mother named them both."

"Was the oldest named after you?"

He shook his head. "As far as I know, my name wasn't in the Bible. It should have been." He leaned back and wet his hair again. "Enough of an old man's ramblings. How long can you hold your breath?"

Carefully I removed my mask and set it aside. The boys had traveled away from the river as the sunlight was fading. I could hide in the cloak of darkness, which was far more comfortable than a mask.

"I could hold my breath for an hour."

"You best not bet your supper, my child."

The sun set as we raced one another across the water and played catch with a crab apple. Moon watched us a while as he ate grass and combated flies. I wished he could join us rather than be forced to stand at a distance, but The Shadow told me donkeys weren't fond of swimming, and so I eventually turned away and enjoyed the night swim.

"In a day we will enter Germany. Then what would you like to see? Paris, Budapest, or Rome?"

I wanted to see all three, which apparently showed in my eyes.

"Which one would you like to see first?"

"Rome," I answered.

"Then Rome it is."

"And then Paris."

He nodded, seemingly satisfied. "Joshua lives outside of Paris. Perhaps you'll entertain him with your violin while we're in Paris and the Pope while we're in Rome."

I chuckled at the idea and floated on my back, allowing the river to gently carry me. It was then that I noticed three figures in the darkness. As swiftly as I could I scrambled to my feet and waded toward my uncle, stuttering as I attempted to alert him.

"You must watch your surroundings better, my son. They've been there for at least ten minutes."

I dressed behind the bushes and fumbled with my mask. The Shadow had already scrambled into his trousers and was threading his arms through his shirt sleeves. He approached the man and two children—a girl much older than me, and a boy around my age. The man's clothes were tattered, but the boy and girl wore well-tailored clothing.

I stayed at a distance and watched my uncle greet them. He bowed deeply and took the girl's hand. She giggled when he flattered her with compliments and covered her mouth with her hand when he called me his squire.

"Their carriage broke down. They're looking for the nearest farmhouse," The Shadow explained once they left.

I nodded. We'd passed two that I could recall.

He fidgeted with something in his scarred hand, which caught my attention. "What is that?" I craned my neck for a better view.

"Payment." He swiftly flashed a small gold ring in the palm of his hand before his fingers closed over it. "I warned them of thieves in the area."

"She gave you her ring?"

"One she'll never miss with the rest of the jewels on her fingers and around her neck."

I felt my lips part. Without a word he turned from me and I followed. I had no idea why I questioned him. I'd never questioned anyone as I was too fearful to do more than accept the world around me. But in exchange for the freedom he gave me, I had no fear of chaining him to my inquisitive mind.

"She-she didn't give it to you as payment, did she?"

"She's far too young to carry such jewels. If she ever discovers that it's missing she'll forget the compliments and guard her jewels."

"Why did you want it?"

A grim smile touched the corners of his lips as he turned to face me. "It will buy two nights under a roof when it's pouring rain, or a week's worth of meals when our bellies are empty. What is it to her but a mere ornament? It was outshining her radiant, slender hands. Trust me, Erik, she won't miss it."

"It's not…wrong?" No one had ever taught me right from wrong, but stealing from this girl sent my heart racing. Perhaps it was my desire to be good—or my fear of being caught.

"Did she look like a young woman who has ever suffered? She's an aristocrat, my boy. They know silver spoons and silken pillows. What do we know, hmm? Sleeping in ferns, hiding by day…riding a donkey." A humorless chuckle left his lips, but I didn't manage a smile.

"It's only a ring, Erik. Petty, to say the least."

My stomach tightened but I didn't question him further. I didn't want to know more or give another second of thought to his actions in fear that my view of him would become distorted—or possibly come into clarity.

"A warm bed," The Shadow sighed. "How does luxury sound to you, my son?"

"Good," I mumbled. Thoughts of his home and his dead son's bed crept into my mind. Warm, safe, comfortable…yes, that's what I wanted to feel again. A proper meal cooked, a quilt to snuggle into and fall asleep in. A night without a spider crawling up my arm or water dripping from the cellar ceiling.

"It sounds good to me too."

"Uncle?" I whispered.

He'd already closed his eyes. "Yes, my child?"

"I-I apologize."

"You've done nothing wrong." He exhaled and our conversation came to an end.

That night I dreamt of a warm fire and soft bed sheets, of a girl and a ring she wouldn't miss. It was a small price to pay for our comfort. In the end, I decided he was correct.


	17. Invitation into Darkness

Giver17

An Invitation to Darkness

We crossed into Germany early one morning and never looked back north.

The ring was swiftly sold and the profits unexpectedly divided. The Shadow decided he would purchase a room for the night, meals for both of us, and allow me what remained.

"It's not much, but it's yours to do with as you please."

"Th-thank you."

He squeezed my shoulder and smiled as we stood on the outskirts of town. By nightfall we would enter the streets and browse under the cover of darkness. For the remainder of the day we would keep to ourselves and out of trouble.

"I expect you will treat your four-legged friend to the best hay in town." He smiled, an impish grin. "He's fortunate you're loyal. I would have sold him and added good ale to my supper."

"He's worth more than ale," I said, my tone harsh and defensive. The beast had become as much my friend as my uncle. Ignorantly I defended the animal.

The Shadow nodded. "So he is."

By nightfall I was giddy, my speech marred by my excitement. Often when my father asked me direct questions and I didn't know how to properly answer him, I stuttered. His anger made it more difficult for me to speak and as I was rendered a babbling idiot, he would showed me no mercy.

"You've no need to be nervous," my uncle said. He patted me gently on the back as we strode toward the town.

I didn't dare speak. My tongue wouldn't allow it. Head lowered, I hoped he would accept my unspoken apology.

"Offer remorse for what is your fault, but never apologize for what you cannot control," he said gently. He stared straight ahead as he spoke. "It will cause you less suffering, my boy, less pain here." He held his hand over his chest. I wondered how he knew where I hurt.

We walked into the nearest inn and left the donkey in the stable, amongst sleek, beautiful horses. I thought about him as I stood behind my uncle. The three of us looked out of place, vagrants in a sea of otherwise proper ladies, gentlemen, and horses.

However, our money was accepted and the owner handed The Shadow the key to our room.

"Go on up and rest yourself," The Shadow said as he pressed the small key into the palm of my hand. "I'll bring supper to you." He reached out for me before I turned. "Do you know where you're going?"

"Yes." I'd already envisioned what it looked like when the man said up the stairs and to the right, third door on the left. A narrow hallway took shape in my mind, several doors on each side with lanterns hung from the wall.

"Good. Wait in the room for me, my child."

Fascinated by the thought of a room, I strode away with both packs slung over my shoulder. I'd never slept on the second floor, which excited me to think I'd be well above the ground, not beneath it.

I was so enraptured with my fortune that I nearly walked past a red-haired woman in a tight blouse. She groaned when I walked past her and I turned to find her cat-like eyes looking me over.

"Care for a friendly poke, young man?" she questioned before I turned away.

My pace slowed. "Excuse me?"

"Virgin's discount," she smiled, brushing an unruly curl from her colorful face.

I had no idea what she meant, but her toothless, unsavory grin told me I wanted to know more. Facing her, I swallowed hard and watched her saunter toward me.

"Ever rutted?"

Slowly I shook my head, enticed and embarrassed by her question. My blood flowed hotter, a painful erection coaxed to life by her words and the sight of her breasts pushed up to her neck.

"Good, then you won't last long." She chuckled softly.

I gave a nervous smile, unaware that she had insulted me. Her perfume flooded my nostrils and I wrinkled my nose, attempting to hold my breath.

Her hand reached out and trailed up my arm to my shoulder. Biting her lip, she ran her fingers down my chest and stomach. If I hadn't stepped back she wouldn't have stopped. Part of me wanted her to leave me alone. A wicked part of me wanted to feel her hand again.

And I did.

She wrapped her arm around my hip and touched me again, this time intimately. I could barely breathe, barely hear the words she spoke as she asked if I was eighteen or nineteen years of age. Rather than answer I nodded, forgetting who I was.

"We won't have to trifle with long introductions," she said with a sly smile.

With one meaningless caress I was in love with her, completely fascinated by the rouge on her cheeks and her painted eyes. She took a step back and I followed her down the dark hallway, toward a door that was crooked on its hinges. A woman was groaning so loudly it sounded as though she was in terrible pain.

"This one's occupied," she said, flashing me another toothless grin. "We'll wait our turn."

But I didn't want to wait. My insatiable mind wanted to know everything she could offer me now, right that moment. I shifted my weight impatiently and jingled coins in my pocket.

"Ah," she said. "How much do you have?"

"Excuse me?"

"How much money do you have? Best to settle the business end of it first, laddie."

"The…the business end?" She wanted my money? I was taken aback by her words, by her assumptions.

"Aye, the business end." She shook her breasts and I stopped thinking about the money in my pocket. "I'll take half of what you have and show you what you've missed for a lifetime."

Captivated. Mesmerized. There was no end to the rush of feelings and emotions I had. She could give me what I'd lacked all these years. Truly I felt as though she'd hinted at it the moment she'd touched me. Love, I thought. She could give me love of a deeper kind, a sensuous, fulfilling affection that would heal me completely, inside and out.

"You'll pay for a good time, dearie. I'll let you touch me anywhere you want. Rough, easy…as you fancy, of course." She touched me again, rougher than before. I froze, alarmed but unwilling to move away and break the sensations that rushed through my body. "Then I'll sit you down, unbutton your trousers, and treat you very well, indeed."

Later, much later, I would wonder if her perfume intoxicated my clarity and left me dumb and stammering, but for the moment I was more than willing to give her all of my money. I dug into my pocket.

"Here," I said, licking my lips.

She reached for the coins, her fingers gently touching mine. I noticed her wrists were scared, her hands scratched. Suddenly I pulled away.

"Afraid?"

I shook my head. Faulted, but perfect in my eyes—mostly because there was no one else to look at, no other offers made. Just as I would serve a purpose to her, she would serve a purpose to me. The only problem was I needed more from her than a meal or a bottle of wine. I needed everything about her, physically, emotionally, almost spiritually.

A man stumbled from the room we waited for, his trousers unbuttoned. I looked away as he passed us, wondering when he would notice he was exposed.

The nameless redhead pushed the door open and I saw another woman, a thin blonde with sharp features and expressionless eyes. Her skirt was pulled up to her hips, the insides of her thighs exposed.

"Erik."

The Shadow's voice nearly made me jump out of my skin. I turned, horrified that I had been caught.

"Erik, the key to our room please."

In my haste I accidentally dropped it on the ground and dove after it. The redhead and the blonde both laughed at me, but I took little notice. The blonde rose and left the bed, the redhead followed but paused at my uncle's side.

"How are you this evening?"

He ignored her and waited for me to stand. When he looked at me it was with grave disappointed. Rather than shame I felt anger. He'd ruined it for me, stolen what I was promised.

"Did you pay her?" he asked, his tone sharp as a knife. He took the key from my hand and stormed out of the room.

"No," I spat at him.

"Good."

"You said it was my money, to do with as I desired." Tears threatened, my desperation outweighing rational thought. The words which left my mouth horrified me. It was foolish of me to risk losing his affection, but I was frustrated. My insides were so tightly wound I thought I'd explode.

"Aye, I did. But tell me, what did she promise you for your money?"

"Everything," I said softly.

She grunted. "That's a hell of a lot for change in your pocket, isn't it?"

Stubbornness clamped my jaw tight. I refused to admit my fault.

"She cannot give you everything because she has nothing but breasts and open legs. Is that what you want? To pay for…" He paused and shook his head. "It's not what you think, my son. Trust me."

"I will decide for myself. It's my money."

He stared hard at me for a long moment before he turned away. "You have twenty minutes before I return with supper. If you aren't back from your duties by then, you'll find the door locked. Stay with her or sleep with Moon." He glanced over his shoulder at me. "After all, it's my money and I will also decide for myself."

The door opened and closed. He disappeared, and so did my desire to see the woman and discover what I had missed all of my life. I suddenly felt as though I lacked much more than she or anyone else could offer.

Precisely twenty minutes later The Shadow returned. He said little to me as he divided our supper. I didn't thank him for filling my belly or giving me a place to rest my head. While he was gone I listened to the redhead moan and curse to the rhythm of a headboard hitting the wall. The cacophony continued once my uncle returned. He stared at me, silently reprimanding my short-lived defiance.

"You deserve better," he muttered. "Better than a mindless rut with a woman who will never know your name."

"I don't care if she knows my name."

"Then you're a fool."

They were the only words we spoke to each other for two days.


	18. Distortion

Giver18

The Shadow slept for nearly two straight days, which left me alone with my thoughts and eavesdropping out the window.

Children played in the street, tossing what looked like a pear back and forth as they laughed and chased one another. I hated them for their freedom and longed to join their games. There would never be a moment for me to participate in such frivolous behavior. I'd gone from birth to early adulthood, my childhood suspended in darkness.

Until the Shadow had found me.

With each hour that passed, I loved and hated him, my emotions dictated by my hormones. He'd given me a decent life in a matter of weeks and I reveled in his presence. Or, at least I had.

Now I didn't know what to do or what to say. Each second I felt pulled in a different direction, my body and mind separated. At one moment I was terrified of the woman I'd met in the hallway, the next I considered searching for her to hand over my money.

Anxious, I paced the room until it was past three in the morning. The floor creaked each time I walked over the rug, and it surprised me when my uncle didn't stir. All the better, I thought, as I crept from the room and stole down the stairs.

To my relief there was no one in sight. I scurried into the stable and found Moon in the very back, separated from the other animals. It angered me—yet another escalation of hormones—that my animal was forced into seclusion. In retaliation, I found a half-full bucket of bruised apples and fed him two. The entire bucket would have gone to him had a cat not arched it back and screamed at me for trespassing through her stable.

I sat in Moon's tiny stall and cupped my chin in my hands. I never wanted to see The Shadow again. He'd robbed me of something, but I didn't know what. It was his fault. I would never know what I lacked, and I was convinced that all of life's opportunities had now passed me by.

And then I panicked. What would I do if he didn't wake? Where would I go if I didn't have him to show me which road to take, which direction to walk? The only path I knew lay behind me—and led back to my parents' door. Their home was a bridge to the asylum.

"Go to sleep," I told the donkey as I ran out of the stable and returned to our room. I flung the door open, fell to my knees, and placed my ear to his chest.

With a sharp exhale he woke and placed his hands atop my head. "You're sweaty."

"I ran."

He was silent a moment. "To return before I woke?"

His lack of trust angered me and I sat up. "To see if you were still alive. I will return to the stable."

The stern expression on his face turned to remorse. "You have your father's temper."

Nothing could have wounded my heart faster than those words. Head bowed, I slunk away and returned to the corner of the room I had taken as my own. There I drew my knees to my chest and closed my eyes in misery. My heart was broken, the pain I felt in my chest ripped through my insides. He was angered and I wished he would take it out on me, remove the barrier that lay between us. Hit me, I wanted to tell him, release your hatred…and then, for God's sake, speak to me as you have done in the past. I lived and breathed for his attention. I would die without him.

Tears threatened and I held my breath. Pain filled me on every level, both physical and emotional.

"How is your four-legged companion?" The Shadow asked softly.

Stubbornly I turned my head away and stared at a hole in the wall. It had been chewed up by vermin, which I had heard scuttling through the inn late in the night. If only they would appear for a moment and befriend me. I would have gladly accepted a beady-eyed rodent as a friend rather than be forced to contend with silence.

"It is a family trait to hold a grudge tightly to one's chest and forget friends and family. If nothing else, your father has taught you stubbornness quite well."

His words threatened to destroy me. It wasn't my father I wished to imitate. It was The Shadow's actions, his words, his ideas I wanted as my own. Each time he spoke of my father I felt fire scorch my insides. I no longer loved my father and mother. As with everything else in my heart, they were fleeting ideas I could not nail down and commit to either love or hate. They were everywhere and nowhere. I was nowhere. Why was this happening?

"Did you have any idea there was a man behind her door, waiting for the two of you to be alone?" he questioned.

Without thinking I looked at him.

"You're quite fortunate I decided to see you before I ordered supper. They could have taken much more than your coins."

"Such as a ring?"

His expression never faltered and he never stood. I found myself both relieved and disappointed when he didn't slap me across the face. Perhaps he didn't trust me, but he reaffirmed that I could trust him.

"A ring is replaced easily enough. However, unless you are Jesus Christ, don't expect anyone to raise you from the dead."

His tone made me shudder, and once again my mood changed. Rather than being combative I turned placid, more child than man.

Yet I wouldn't apologize. Not then, not ever. He evidently understood that this gap between us would never fully close. A better, more mature man than I was, he stepped around it, found a path my heart and mind could not.

"The innkeeper said there is a quartet entertaining the guests tonight during supper. I think our souls need music, don't you?"

I nodded, forced a smile.

"If you would be so kind, wake me in an hour. We'll take a walk before the sun is up and fill our lungs with fresh air."

A cleansing, I thought. I needed to be purged, balanced as I was before we had stepped foot in this terrible little town and rat-infested inn. Then we could be friends again, uncle and nephew, teacher and student.

I lay for a while and released the tears which had threatened for some time. I didn't know what to do with myself. I wished the growing part of me, the combative part of me, would go away. Arms wrapped around my chest, I curled into a tight ball and pretended I was an infant being held in my mother's arms.

If I dreamed I didn't remember it. I woke hours later to a bright blue sky filled with stark white clouds. My eyes strained to find dragons and dogs slowly passing the window, but all I saw was distorted, meaningless shapes.

It saddened me to think I had lost against myself. The child I longed to be for only one more day was gone. The road ahead felt much heavier, much darker than the view displayed from the window.

I closed my eyes again.

Nothing changed.


	19. Hints of Family

Thanks to Jax and MadLizzy for their help!

Hints of a Family

Giver19

The raucous noise from the bar only magnified my anxiety. My stomach growled, yet I had no intention of leaving this room in favor of dining with the public. They'd stare at me, whisper cruel words. I had imagined every feasible scenario and played it through my mind until I was sick to my stomach.

The only person who could ease my troubled mind ignored me still. We'd said little to each other while we shared the same room, and the cold, dreadful feeling of solitude crept into my heart. Each time I wanted him to speak to me I looked away, fearful of what he would say. I placed the nails into my coffin—or did I place the nails in his coffin, I would wonder.

The noise downstairs grew louder. More people entered the dining room, more steins of beer filled and emptied. I balled my hands into tight fists and held my breath.

This night would strangle the life from my body.

I sat on my lumpy mattress. Head bowed, I studied The Shadow from the corner of my eye, attempting to take my mind off food and unwanted company.

He sat hunched over for a long while and scribbled on both sides of a single piece of paper, which was all the innkeeper would spare. As he thought, he would tap the pen against the ink well, then grunt and begin to furiously write.

Curiosity got the best of me, and at last the silence was broken between us.

"What are you writing?"

"A letter." He paused, read over his words, and glanced up at me. "My penmanship is not what it used to be." He smiled briefly. "One should always write with great care, for it is not only the words which you send, but the first glimpse of yourself in each stroke. Remember that."

I would. "To whom are you writing?"

"To my oldest son."

"Joshua."

He seemed genuinely amused. "You've remembered your cousin's name."

I sat up straighter, proud of myself. Slowly, I would regain his affection and my confidence.

"And your youngest son's name was Matthew."

"That's what his mother called him," he said under his breath. He glanced at me. "I called him trouble." He signed his letter and folded it in thirds. Once he had it in an envelope, he tucked it into his back pocket and stood. "They had better have good food tonight."

He motioned for me to stand and I hesitated briefly, uncertain of whether I could walk down the stairs and not immediately pass out. Sustenance was of little concern, and as I looked around the room I realized neither was the crowd. I could wilt no further. His company, his companionship—outweighed my fears.

"And good music," I added.

His hand settled lightly on my shoulder as he opened the door. "Indeed, my son, good music indeed."

-o-

The air smelled of barley, pork, and sweat. Nauseating at first, but eventually the combined scents were tolerable, especially when I saw the servers carry dish after dish to the tables and waiting patrons.

I followed The Shadow through a tangled mass of men and women until we were seated in the far corner. The candle was burnt to a stub, wax splattered across the table's surface. Names and pictures had been carved into the tabletop, which I traced with my finger.

"We may either eat well and spend all of our money now, or eat like beggars for several days and keep our bellies half-full." He didn't look at me when he spoke, which only reminded me that a rift still existed, that what I had chosen and he had denied still loomed between us.

"I'm not that hungry," I replied.

"You're a young man. You should constantly be hungry."

A woman approached our table and sighed. "Eating or drinking?" She sounded as though she'd asked a thousand times already and didn't care what we said in return.

"Both. Gives us two of whatever the special is tonight."

He ordered two steins as well, but I was unfamiliar with beer and only half-listened. My attention was swallowed up by several people dressed in mustard yellow vests. One man carried in a double bass, and I watched as he bumped into people in order to protect his instrument. Behind him a woman in a dark, flowing skirt and pale blonde hair ordered him to keep moving. Brother and sister, I thought.

The musicians had arrived. Food, drink, strangers…what were they? I had entered my own little kingdom, one ruled by sound. Hands clasped beneath the table, I sat forward and studied their every word, strained to hear their distant conversation.

"It's a Busetto-shaped double bass," The Shadow said casually. "Possibly a hundred years old by the looks of it."

The waitress slammed our drinks on the table and wandered away. I cradled my stein in my hands and watched as the bassist began tuning his instrument.

"Listen. Do you hear that?"

It took me a moment to dissect the instruments over the incessant murmur of the crowd, but when I did finally concentrate on just the bass, I turned to my uncle and cocked my head to the side.

"He isn't doing it right."

"Excuse me?"

"The tuning. He should tune it like a violin." He'd tuned it in fourths, in E-A-D-G, which didn't sound correct to my ears. Violins were tuned G-D-A-E, with A tuned first—then the rest were tuned against each other in intervals of perfect fifths, which I had memorized when I had a violin of my own. Hearing this mistake, I was prepared to march over to this fool and correct him, but The Shadow shook his head.

"Listen closely. Do you hear the difference?"

My eyes narrowed, my ears straining to hear every decibel. I knew that they weren't played in the same manner, but being a string instrument I expect similarities between the two.

"It's not played like a violin." I smiled inwardly. "And it's not tuned the same way either. Why haven't I noticed before?"

The Shadow sat back and sipped his beer. "Have you seen a double bass before?"

"Once." It was apt to say I had heard the deep, looming sound of a double bass and had only glimpsed at it through a dirty window.

"Did you notice how he carried it in?"

I nodded. "Carefully."

"Why?"

"So that he wouldn't hit anyone."

"For the sake of the people or the sake of his instrument?"

"The instrument?"

He smiled again and nodded. The flow of our relationship had returned, the conversation steady, our bond growing. I sat forward so I could hear him better, absorb each word he spoke. "They're not sturdy like a cello—or a violin for that matter. An elbow could punch through it, destroy the instrument."

While the instruments were tuned and the musicians practiced, our food was brought to the table, still sizzling on the plates in a combination of grease and what smelled like beer. I poked at the sausage, unsure of its appeal.

That was when I became aware of laughter at the table across from ours. At first I ignored it, but then just like the double bass, their words became clear in my mind.

"What do you suppose he has under that mask?"

The music was no longer a suitable barrier. Head down, I cut my food with my fork and ate slowly, pretending it was the most interesting thing I'd ever seen. Still their voices grew, surrounded me. They laughed and I knew it was at me, whispered words concerning my presence. Every gaze in the dark, smoke-filled pub had come to rest on my masked face.

"You are very much like your grandfather," my uncle stated.

I swallowed hard and glanced up at him. My cheeks burned as I stared at him, wondered why his voice seemed so distant compared to those around me. "I-I don't know anything about him."

"That's a shame," he replied. He stuffed tobacco into his pipe, which I hadn't seen him smoke for a while. The aroma made me inhale deeply, a reminder of our last meal taken around a table—and conversation about family. "You would have liked him if he were still alive."

"How did he die?"

"He coughed black tar for many years, then one day it suffocated him, I suppose." He spoke without emotion, and I wondered if he'd been close to his father. I could picture myself speaking of my own sire in the same manner, as though it were a nameless man I'd seen on the street. It saddened me, the broken edges of my family.

"I'm sorry," I said obtusely.

"He was a very good musician. I remember when I was just a boy, much younger than you, and I would sit by the fire while my brothers played outside."

"You had two brothers?"

"Still do," he answered. "By blood, at least. By preference I still have one." He placed his pipe down. "My father could play the violin, the flute, the piano…if it made sound he would pick it up and entertain himself."

He paused and took another drink from his stein. "He would have sat beside you and bored you to death with every detail of how that bass was made, as well as everything the musician did wrong. He was critical of other musicians. I'd never play before him—not unless I wanted to be knocked down several pegs. Ah, but he knew what he was doing when he played, how to elicit emotion from a crowd of twenty or just his wife and children. You've got at least a drop of his blood in you, haven't you?"

Shyly I smiled. "Did my father play?" I blurted out.

He gazed at me, sadness in his eyes. "A long time ago. He gave up music for whiskey and gambling—and that woman he calls his wife."

"Did your children play? Did you teach them?"

"Joshua plays piano. Matthew was too ill to learn. He couldn't sit on the bench, nor hold a violin, but he enjoyed listening to me play."

His words captivated me, these long-awaited glimpses into my roots. In my mind I painted pictures of them, younger versions—healthier versions—of my yellow-eyed, thin uncle. They would be tall like him, thin but well-built. Light brown hair, pale eyes, and handsome features. I was proud to be part of their stock, even if they didn't know I was alive.

"Did your father know your sons?"

"Did your grandfather know your cousins? He knew Joshua. Loved him as he loved me. He passed away months after Matthew was born." He smiled. "His only regret with Matthew was that his mother insisted we call him by his middle name, not his given name."

"Matthew was his middle name?"

"Yes, his name was my name."

He continued to speak but the band began to play and his words were lost. I ate in silence until the musicians finished their song and the patrons applauded. Glancing over, I saw the table beside ours was empty.

With a sigh of relief I relaxed and enjoyed my night spent in darkness, content with the food in my belly and the sound of music at last soothing my soul.


	20. The Devil and Paganini

A/N There's a midi file of Paganini's No. 24 available online (which is mentioned in this chapter). It's available at Karadar's Classical Music Dictionary as a free MP3, which I strongly suggest you listen to just for a feel of what I'm talking about. It really is an amazing piece of music—perfect to listen to while reading this chapter. You might also want to read his bio so that you understand a little better. Who knows? Maybe it'll be a Jeopardy question and you'll win! The link is karadar . com/dictionary/paganini .html

Take out the spaces and check out the song.

Giver20

I had never felt better in my life. Note by beautiful note—indeed minute by minute—I had passed an invisible threshold of a lifetime spent in a cellar to an existence worthy of human companionship. Every so often I felt people stare at me but I ignored their curiosity. They could see me on the outside, and if they saw me from within I didn't give a damn. Music filled me. Music, I knew, would pour from my overflowing soul.

By the end of the evening I felt warm with beer, food, and company. My tongue was thoroughly loosened and I wanted nothing more than speak and be spoken to. However, for all of my energy, my uncle appeared exhausted. I didn't understand how he could be tired since he'd spent the better part of two days sleeping, but I didn't question him.

"We should continue toward Paris late tonight," he said.

The crowds had thinned considerably until only a dozen people remained. The musicians milled around at the front of the pub, conversing with patrons. Once or twice I caught the bassist's eye and he nodded to acknowledge me. It only increased the ball of energy I felt building within me, this nod from a fellow musician.

"Speak with him if you like," The Shadow said casually.

"Wh-who? Me?"

He laughed and filled his pipe with tobacco. "Yes, Erik. He would be flattered. I'm certain of it."

But my legs turned to lead and I felt my throat go dry. It was easy to merely sit in the crowd. As long as there were shadows and voices to cover my own whispered words I was content. My tongue would not work properly, however, if I approached the musicians. They would ridicule me first for my appearance and then for my stupidity.

I sank into my chair and cast my gaze on the table.

"Oh." He tsked me. "Stand up."

I started to shake my head but he stood first and started to make his way through the crowd. With no other choice than to sit alone, I scrambled after him and found myself suddenly at the edge of their makeshift stage.

"We have enjoyed your performance…"

Once I realized my heart still continued to beat, I glanced around the stage. The violinist—the sole woman in their band of musicians—stood very close to an older man. She looked him in the eye and smiled as he dropped several coins into her violin case. To me she looked like a Basset Hound, her long features and heavy-lidded eyes accentuated by her pin-straight hair.

"My nephew, forgive him…"

The tallest of the musicians mopped his balding pate with a handkerchief, then proceeded to blow his nose. He glanced at me then looked away in search of his drink.

"He's a nice boy. Deserves better."

"Is it…contagious?" I heard the bassist ask.

Gooseflesh rose along my arms as they discussed my affliction, my wretched appearance. I held my breath, and felt cold replace the warmth I'd earlier discovered inside of me.

"No, no, of course not. His father…honestly, need I say more?"

My jaw clamped tightly and I stared at my feet, wishing I were closer to the ground. Small…like a cockroach scurrying unnoticed. That was what I wanted to be. It was, I realized, how I had felt for most of my life. I'd always hated it—but now I longed for the comfort of anonymity.

My uncle placed his hand on my shoulder and drew me closer.

"This is Erik. He has taught himself to play the violin."

The man stared at me, his hardened gaze seemed to bore through me. I felt invisible beneath his gaze, not anonymous and comfortable. It was as though he looked at me and saw nothing. I wanted to step back and return to my room but The Shadow held fast to my arm.

"He's a musical genius," The Shadow said. "I've never seen a boy learn music so swiftly."

"He's what? Sixteen, seventeen years of age?"

"Thirteen," he corrected. "And picked up a violin for the first time only this summer."

The bassist snorted. "There isn't much of a crowd, but I'm certain they would appreciate a bit of genius." He whistled and the woman turned to face him. "Give your violin to Mozart."

"He prefers Paganini."

"Sold his soul to the devil, eh?"

"He need not sell his soul to anyone. No one could pay enough for such remarkable genius."

The Shadow's words were met with mocking laughter. He looked at me and winked, reassuring me that their laughter was not in jest of something I had done. It would be years before I studied music on my own and learned that Paganini was a wiry, long-haired fellow who played with such passion that his eyes rolled back in his head. Women fainted and men would weep when they heard him play. It was as though he had sold his soul to the devil.

The violinist eyed me from afar and made no attempt to offer her instrument. "Does he have mange?"

Another blow to my existence. Her words made me flinch. The remaining patrons felt much too close, as though they stood on top of me.

"His only affliction is cruel parents and inconsiderate strangers. Give him your violin," The Shadow said, his voice so commanding I would not have known he spoke had I not seen the words leave his mouth.

The woman hesitated. I didn't want the violin or the bow. I didn't want to stand on their stage or become part of their spectacle. Darkness had never seemed so pleasant—or so far away.

"What shall he play?" the bassist questioned.

"If he is truly Paganini then it is only fair that he play Number twenty-four in A Minor." The woman smirked as though she'd found a way to retain her violin.

"Do you remember it, Erik?" The Shadow asked me.

I nodded, the notes filling my head one by one. I'd heard a rather lackluster rendition of the caprice months before. The violinist who'd attempted the song had destroyed the variation, his fingers too still to do the piece justice.

"You know it well enough to play it? Or have you not yet acquired the skill?"

To hell with feeling awkward. Shame was rapidly replaced by my stubbornness which refused to bow down.

"I could play it backwards," I replied.

The Shadow smiled. "For your encore." He looked to the woman. "Let him play."

She took one last, longing glance at her beloved violin before she extended her arm and handed me the instrument. My hands shook as I accepted it from her, watching as she recoiled from me as though she feared I would harm her.

"He doesn't know it," the man who had sung with the musicians taunted as he crossed his arms.

Ignoring his words, I took a deep breath and positioned the violin beneath my chin. The room and the people within it disappeared as I placed the bow to the string. It was as though I no longer existed in a mortal body. Greater than flesh and blood, I didn't play the violin or merely imitate what I had crudely heard once before. I was sound, I was string, and I was wood. Tempo became my heartbeat, melody my blood, and themes my bones. The instrument and I were one, perfectly blended, free of barriers and ridicule. I forgot myself, forgot the room, forgot the pain that had nailed me to the earth.

Lost—or perhaps at last found—I allowed the music to guide me, lead me to the very core of my existence. I felt as though I had played the piece from the moment I took my first breath, though in the same moment my heart beat as though if I neglected one note I would destroy the world.

When at last the music ended and I felt the room and smelled the ale again, I reluctantly opened my eyes. Each fear that had abandoned me once again came home to roost in my heart. Fearfully I swallowed and stared at the ground.

"I'll be damned," the singer said. "He can play like all hell."

"No, not like hell," my uncle corrected. "Like an angel."

Embarrassed, I started to hand the violin back to the owner, but she stepped back from me. I couldn't tell if I disgusted or intrigued her as she shook her head.

"Keep it," she said. "I have no desire to play it any longer."


	21. The Art of Deception

Giver21

No one had ever been proud of me, but instinct alone told me that the grin on his face was from pride. Pure, genuine pride.

I remained close at his side while he spoke to the bassist and singer. The former violin owner had disappeared, and as much as I wished to speak with her about her instrument, I was filled with excitement from which I had no hope of recovering. Lost to the conversations around me, I stared at my feet and attempted to remember what had happened. It would have been a joy to recall the look on at least one person's face when they watched me play.

But I had nothing physical to remember of the night. The ecstasy I felt pumping through my veins lingered, but not nearly long enough. Eventually I was just a young man in a smoke-filled pub with only a half-dozen people milling around. With nothing to distract me, I returned to being an awkward youth. Fears and uncertainties piled one on top of another in my mind. I was no different from the boy who'd entered at his uncle's heels.

His hand on my shoulder roused me from my disparaging thoughts.

"Let's find Moon," he suggested. The grin had not left his face.

With a nod I followed him out, violin and case in hand.

"Why did she not wish to keep this?" I questioned.

"I'd say you proved to her that she was unworthy." He smiled, but it wasn't as genuine. "Or perhaps it's an older instrument and she's found a newer one she prefers."

"Then why would she bring the old one to play?"

"It makes little difference now. It's yours. What else do you need to know?"

"But she doesn't know me."

"No, she doesn't. But I doubt she'll ever forget you. No one here will forget what they heard tonight for quite some time."

They would remember a nameless child with a mask. The thought saddened me. Unknown as always…for one night, at least, I wanted them to hear my name. I am Erik, and I play the violin. No, that wasn't it. I am Erik, and I have mastered the violin. Yes, that suited me better.

"She won't ask to have it returned?"

"You needn't worry. I think she's a little too proud to make such a ridiculous request. And if she does? Well, I will speak to her."

I nodded, but his answers didn't satisfy my voracious hunger for the truth. The untold reason for this violin coming into my possession continued to gnaw at me. I had my speculations—though they weren't the same reasons my uncle had given me. She most likely feared that my flesh would scar her flesh if she dared hold the violin to her face.

As we walked, I slipped my fingers beneath the cloth mask and touched my skin. My father had slapped me many times but his fingers and palm were never scarred. I wasn't contagious or diseased, and I had half the mind to search the whole town to tell this woman that I would not make her ugly.

Suddenly I was angry. I glanced up and found The Shadow several paces ahead of me, lost in his own reverie. He apparently hadn't taken notice that I lagged behind. Head bowed, I sighed and trudged forward.

"You know, old man, that boy you have could make you a fortune."

I paused as two wiry-looking fellows approached my uncle. I knew they had seen me but I still slowed my pace, as though this would make me invisible.

"I've never been good with a fortune, I'm afraid," he replied.

The men exchanged glances. I found myself two steps behind The Shadow.

"He'd be a delight to a crowd."

The Shadow held his cane in one hand and shifted his weight. "Aye, but he needs to learn more than one song before he can consider playing for the Pope."

"What else can he do?"

The Shadow moved, putting himself between me and the two strangers. "You've seen what he can do. Perhaps you will be so fortunate as to see him again in the future."

"He should perform nightly. Before paying crowds, old man."

My muscles tensed. I stood very near my uncle and held my breath, feeling like a cornered animal.

"You've pussy-footed around your true intentions long enough. Tell me, how much would you offer me for the boy?"

Both men smiled and nodded as though they'd bought a fatted calf for half its asking price. I took a step back, prepared to run. If only I knew which direction would lead me to safety.

One of the men glanced over The Shadow's shoulder and eyed me. "He's thin."

"His stature has nothing to do with his talent. Your asking price need only rely on what you've seen tonight."

"But if he dies during transport, he's not worth a damn thing."

Gooseflesh rose along my arms and the hairs at the back of my neck stood on end. Briefly I thought I would pass out, but somehow I managed to stand and listen.

"He's not ill. You could take him halfway around the world and I assure you he would survive."

"There's a gypsy camp not more than three days from here."

The Shadow nodded. "So the coin you give me becomes two for you once you sell him."

The older of the two men scratched his jaw. "Does he hold sentimental value?"

"Why should I consider the first offer I hear? Perhaps in the next town I would receive twice the amount you offer."

"Aye, but there is no way to tell for certain, is there? Who knows? The next town you pass through might request you leave at once."

"I've traveled through these parts many times. I know where I'm wanted and where I'm not welcomed, which is more than most men could say." He leaned back and studied them. "Answer me honestly, gentlemen. What intrigues you about the boy: His musical talent or the intrigue of his mask?"

"Both."

The Shadow gave a slow nod. I wondered if I'd put my trust in a false man.

By their rigid posture I knew the two men were frustrated and anxious to strike their bargain and be on their way.

"Would you like to see what is behind the mask?"

The men exchanged grins and nodded. They were already bald, and all they needed were wings and beaks to become true vultures.

The Shadow stuck his hand out. "Your drinking money, gentleman. If you wish a show, then you'll pay for it upfront."

My heart sank, senses reeled, yet still I made no attempt to escape. He'd saved me from one fate in order to exchange my pride for drinking money. He no longer seemed like a caring uncle. He was no different than my father deep down inside. I felt like a fool for ever allowing myself to believe there was love in the world left for a dog with a monster's face.

Coins dropped into his hand, unseen by my eyes. Tears threatened to steal my vision and ice filled my veins. I wondered how long they would examine me, what words would escape their lips, what prayers would fill their thoughts.

"Erik."

The sound of my name made me wince. He touched my arm and found my hand. Cold metal touched my palm.

"Put these in your pocket."

The world grew darker as I crawled into the recess of my mind, the only shelter I still possessed. One by one I dropped the payment into my pocket and stood, frozen by my pending shame. I hadn't the strength or the inclination to beg him for mercy, to ask him to reconsider. If he'd glanced over his shoulder he would have seen my terror.

"We've paid. Where's the show?"

I swear I felt the droplets of blood on my cheek well before I ever saw my uncle's cane leave his side. With two vicious strikes, he hit both men in the face, then pulled the cane apart where a thin sword was concealed. Stunned, I watched as he cut them both across the neck. He didn't slice their throats and bleed them to death, but he issued considerable damage that left them sprawled on the ground.

My heart had ceased to beat in the time it took him to carve them up and wipe the blade.

"Gentleman, I urge you take caution, especially when you wish to deal in slavery," he said, his voice as calm as though he spoke of the weather. "No one is as they seem. An old, dying man still has dignity, and a boy behind a mask is not a creature to be bought and sold. He is human, and you will see him again on a stage of his choosing, not a damned exhibit in a fair." He glanced back at me, his eyes vacant of expression. "Retrieve the beast. I shall gather our belongings."

I don't recall untying Moon or setting off down the road. All I remembered was seeing the sun rise, a ball of blood in a sea or pink. Pink like their throats, red like the blood in my veins that would be cold for quite some time. Though I still respected my uncle, I feared him as well. But much more than respect or fear, I was envious of his strength.

By appearance he was deceptive. To me, it was an art form.

-o-

A/N: When I sat down to write this scene I kept thinking about the part in ALW's film where The Phantom looks at Christine. You know she's going to pull off the mask, but he just looks so darned love sick and convinced that he's finally won her over. And then she ruins it, the little twit.

Anyhow, that's the sort of feeling I wanted to convey with this vignette. Only in this instance, it didn't work against Erik. Or did it?


	22. A Teacher for Love

I'm shifting to a different gear. This jumps ahead to when Alex is only 8 months old. Thank you to all of my NDBRs who made suggestions—including the note at the front to actually tell people that we're leaving The Shadow for a moment and going back to Erik with Alexandre as an infant.

Also…enter the contest on my site! It's under Introducing Erika Kire. You don't have too much longer to enter so check it out!

Giver22

When I held my son I felt whole. Hours passed and I was content watching him sleep, knowing that he was mine and no one else's. It both frightened and overjoyed me to have this child, to know a part of me existed in blithe, perfect flesh and blood.

"Listen closely," I told him as I sat him on my bed.

He wobbled, drool forming at the corner of his mouth as he stared at me. I took up my chair and sat at arm's length from him, showing him my violin. When I allowed him to grasp the bow, he cooed to himself in delight.

"Music," I told him, "is in your blood."

Naturally, he wailed when I pried it from his tiny hands.

"Cease this fussing," I said roughly. He laughed again when I shook a finger at him, the insolent little imp. "You must pay close attention as I may require you to play for me."

He babbled as I tuned the instrument, his voice filled with excitement. I knew he joyfully anticipated my performance. Since the day he had arrived at my doorstep I had sung to him, wrapping him in my world of sound.

The moment I placed the bow to the strings he became silent, his large, gray-blue eyes the window to his endless curiosity.

"I call it…'Alexandre'."

He clapped once, honored that the performance was named after him. There could have been a crowd of thousands and I wouldn't have been as nervous as I was when playing for him. As my son, I valued his opinion over all others—even if he could not yet voice his thoughts in words. If he cooed he would show joy, if he cried it would be in disappointment.

When he did nothing more than stare at me I was confused.

"Don't be difficult," I said to him.

A grin spread wide across his face and he tipped back on my bed. With a giggle, he rolled onto his belly and babbled for me to set him upright again.

With his hands in mine, I looked him in the eye. "Who would be foolish enough to abandon you, Alexandre? Who would ever voluntarily give up this voice…these eyes?"

I blinked and felt tears in my eyes. Before his mother had left him at my doorstep, I expected that the one line I had asked to be placed in the newspaper would come true. Erik was dead. I'd felt as though I were dying--and then he was in my arms, this savior of my life.

As he made bubbles, I scooped him up and cradled him in my arms. He smacked his lips together and immediately began to kick.

"My composition has made you ravenous. I understand you." I shifted him to my side and with his legs around my hip, I carried him downstairs and into the kitchen where Meg and Madeline were chopping vegetables.

"My son is hungry," I said to them.

For all of my care and love, he was still an imperfect child. It was the only way I could explain how he took on a fever when he was eight months old. The night following his first concert he screamed and kicked until he was limp in my arms.

"Monsieur Kire?" Madeline said as she tapped on my bedroom door.

I had kept the door closed all day as I sat and held him, shushing him as though it would make him well again.

I didn't answer her. There was no time to speak to anyone, to look away from his curl-framed face.

"Monsieur Kire?" Her voice held more desperation than it had the first time.

Alexandre fussed again, his tiny hands balled into fists. He reached up, his mouth opening in a soundless cry.

"Is Alexandre well? I haven't heard him make a sound in hours."

She questioned me because she feared I would fail, that my monster's hands would harm him. Perhaps she thought I tired of him and placed a pillow over his head. Or that I had left him somewhere to rid my household of Christine's final gift to me.

The door opened and I rose from my bed with Alexandre in my arms. Madeline walked up beside me and grabbed me by the arm. She'd never touched me before—at least not that I could recall. I wrenched away from her contact but she held fast and placed her free hand against Alexandre's forehead.

"My God. How long has he been this warm?" she questioned.

I didn't want to answer her, but his fever terrified me. Somehow I had failed to care for him, and in defeat I hung my head.

"Since last night."

Madeline gasped. "You must give him to me."

"No."

"He's ill."

"Then I will care for him."

"But you don't know how to care for a child," she blurted out.

She was correct, which only made me angry. I knew nothing of my son, of how to heal what I had created. With a heavy heart I pressed his body to my chest, unwilling to give him to anyone. If he died, I would die.

I was tired of living alone. Tired of being a stranger to the world. Only my son knew me, and if he were gone…there was no use living in this house, in this city. In this damned, horrible world.

"Bring me whatever he needs. Then leave me with him."

"Monsieur—"

"Now."

She didn't question me. Head bowed, she walked away. When the door closed I sat on my bed and kissed his face.

"I don't want you to die," I whispered. "You have not yet heard the second part of my performance."

As he slept I carried him down to the cellar where the air was cool. Through the floors I heard Madeline and Meg speaking.

"Leave him be, Mother."

"I worry for that little boy."

"Oh," Meg scoffed.

"What does he do in there all day with him?"

"He sings to him." Meg's voice sounded light and musical. "How man infants have you seen that rarely cry?"

"Infants should cry. It's not healthy to spoil a baby the way he does. His lungs won't develop properly and he'll grow up to be a mute."

"What are you going to do? Steal Alexandre from Monsieur Kire's arms?"

"Hush, Meg. He'll hear you."

"If he hurt the child you'd hear him screaming. As long as the baby is content I see no harm. It would be worse if he neglected the poor child. Or beat him bloody."

"You are not a mother. Children need to cry themselves to sleep. You wouldn't understand these things, Meg."

"No, perhaps I haven't a child of my own, but I understand the sound of laughter and much prefer it to the sound of a baby crying."

I'd never heard Meg so feisty before. Nor had I ever heard her defend me and my decisions. She always shrank when I was near her.

In my heart I knew what I did was correct. When I looked in the mirror I understood why my parents locked me away, why my mother had refused to touch me, why my father had never said a kind word to me. The few moments of kindness and respect I had known came to me unexpectedly…unbidden. But through those heartbeats, those rare connections, I had found it in myself to love and care for this child, to see that my past did not become his future. A monster on the outside. My heart still beat with warmth. For Alexandre I would have a gentle hand.

My son brought tears to my eyes. Unlike me, he deserved to be coddled and protected. A good baby, a perfect baby—so much better than his father in appearance and temperament, was worthy of good treatment. The man who had spent the last three months of his life raising me would have been pleased with the child I held in my arms.

"He would have adored you," I said to him as I carried him up the stairs and into my room.

He was the only reason I could love my son.


	23. Ugly Dogs

A/N: This returns to Young Erik and his time with The Shadow

Giver23

"Ugly Dogs"

Animals had no fear of my appearance. If I sat very still, birds would hop toward me and eat bread from my extended hand. It fascinated me and I thought myself quite clever and unique.

"Pigeons," my uncle said. "They are trained and trust humans."

His words failed to put a damper on my spirit. Weeks in the sun had turned my flesh bronze and bleached my hair a lighter shade of brown. My mood was on the rise, my outlook on the strange world around me for once positive. I shrugged off his comment, which in the past I would have never done. It normally would have dwelled and eaten holes in my soul. But I was changed, transformed…I was alive.

We walked for several days and the encounter with the two men who had wished to enslave me became a distant memory. The wheat and barley fields seemed to grow taller with each passing day. The days grew longer and much hotter. Slowly we rearranged our schedule so that we traveled from dusk until late in the night and slept from sunrise until the middle of the afternoon.

It was late one night that we heard howling far ahead of us. The sound of dogs growling made my skin crawl and lit my nerves afire. Even Moon seemed anxious, being that he was an animal of prey.

"What is that?" I asked at last. The sounds grew louder, the growls turned to an occasional yelp.

A gunshot tore through the night before The Shadow could answer.

"Make haste," he said under his breath.

Accompanying the terrifying noise was torchlight and several wagons along the side of the road. The land dipped down to where a large fire illuminated the outside of a barn. From there the sounds of dogs growling and whimpering filled the night.

"Uncle—"

He looked me in the eye as I tugged Moon forward. "Dog fighting," he answered.

A thin man with a limp emerged from one of the wagons as he led a stocky, muscular dog on a short leash. The beast had only one eye and its ears seemed to have been torn off. I didn't look at it for long, but its torso appeared quite scarred.

I saw another dog, smaller than the one on a leash. The creature was in a cage, snarling and slamming its head against the wooden bars in an attempt to either escape or attack us. I couldn't tell which, since my view of it was blocked by the bulkier dog with foam in his massive jaws.

"Uncle," I said once we were past the man and his dog. "They fight dogs?"

"Aye."

"Man against dog?"

"Dog against dog."

I didn't quite understand what he meant but it made my stomach tighten. What was the purpose of watching two animals fight? Indeed, what was the purpose of watching an animal fight a man?

"Dog against dog?"

"Aye."

"What do they do that for?"

"Some people consider it sport. They wager money on the animals and watch."

"Watch what?"

"The fight. It continues until one of the beasts dies."

My lips parted in horror. "But why would they want to watch that?"

"Because man was blessed with a brain he often times never uses," he answered. "Come on. We should make it another three miles before we he stop and make camp."

My heart felt sick and heavy. The dogs and their unseen fighting would be out of earshot, but it didn't mean that they were not bloodied or dying in each other's jaws. I glanced back and wondered if the earless animal I had seen would fight and live or die in a bloody heap.

Though I said nothing more of it, I continued to glance back. I was certain we were far from the noise, yet still I heard the sound of dogs yelping well into the dawn.

A night of tossing and turning led me to a dreary and difficult late afternoon. I woke cranky and miserable with the camp to myself. The Shadow was singing to himself from the stream where he bathed. Vaguely I recalled that he told me he was taking a bath for my sake, because he feared if he didn't I would fall over dead the moment I stood downwind from him.

As I listened to his off-key tune, I stood and stretched.

There he was: A beaten, sorry excuse for a dog, not more than twenty paces away. His head was misshapen, his ears mere stubs and his legs bitten raw and bloodied. There was no telling the color of his fur as he was little more than pink flesh coated in what I assumed was his own blood.

We stared at each other for a long moment and all I could think of was the terrible noises I'd heard the night before. Bracing myself, I waited for him to charge across the terrain and attack.

He sounded as though he snorted rather than breathed, which reminded me of a bull. I lowered my gaze, recalling that eye contact was often misconstrued as aggression and I had no desire to challenge this creature. If there was one stance I knew well, it was submissive. While I watched him from the corner of my eye, I crouched down and slowly extended my hand in a respectful greeting. The animal kept his distance, his head held low as he trotted around me. I wondered if he smelled my fear as I felt sweat roll down my back and the moisture on my palms.

If he'd had a tail I was certain it would have wagged as he finally approached and sniffed my hand. His tongue flicked out and licked my knuckles, which made me smile.

"Nice boy."

I turned my wrist in order to scratch his chin and he jumped back. He yipped as though I had hurt him, which sent goosebumps down my arms. He turned and scampered away and I thought for certain that my little four-legged friend would leave, but instead he paused and dropped down. He lay for a moment, still breathing heavy.

The dog's sound of alarm drew my uncle back to camp. He raced up to me, his shirt barely over his head, and stared at me, then the bloodied dog.

"Oh, Erik," he said. He didn't scold me but I knew he was not pleased with the latest addition to our tribe. With a shake of his head, he studied the animal. "Out of all the people in the world, I should have known you'd find the ugliest dog possible—half dead at that—and befriend him."

"He's not ugly," I retorted.

He glanced at me and smiled. "No, not ugly. Merely half-dead. And afraid as well."

"He's not afraid of me." I was hopeful still that The Shadow would agree to me keeping the dog even though the dog wouldn't come any closer, and I had no idea if it was friendly or would even live to see the next day. In the weeks since I'd left the cellar and gone out into the world I'd found myself the proud owner of childish optimism. Most certainly I realized that the dog was injured. I even understood it was seriously maimed. But to me it was not beyond repair.

In that wretched beast I saw myself. If I could teeter on the edge and be drawn back from the abyss then surely this miserable dog could find his place as well.

"He," my uncle said, "is a she. A nursing she, I'd gather."

"A who?"

"She's had puppies. Look at her underside."

Beyond the scars on her back and legs, the tears to her face and the loss of her ears I'd not noticed she was a female.

I craned my neck as though I'd spot her pups. Giddiness filled my insides. I'd always been fond of dogs, especially big dogs. The prospect of caring for a mother and her puppies was one I very much wished to undertake. I could see myself carrying them when they couldn't walk on their own.

"Where do you suppose they are?" I asked.

"Dead," he answered. "She either fought off whatever dog attacked her and failed to protect her litter or they were sold or died and she was discarded."

My optimism swiftly turned to rage. "Why would someone do such a terrible thing?" I asked.

"Money," he answered. "Profit comes well before the life of a dog."

We didn't speak much after that, and it became my unspoken goal to earn the injured dog's trust and bring her with us wherever we traveled. While The Shadow looked on, I gave her half of my meal—pheasant with sweet peas and green beans—and crouched down ten paces away to watch her eat.

All the while I praised her, recalling how I'd once coaxed a rail-thin mutt into following me. I'd escaped from my cellar and quietly petted the stray dog. It trembled as I ran my hands down its sides, but eventually he grew calm, shared my meager supper, and trotted behind me. My father, who hated everything in the world, removed it from my possession. While I stared through the bars, he cut its throat and tossed it into a ditch.

My eyes filled with tears as I looked at the injured dog and desperately wanted to redeem myself. I'd felt as though I'd led the mutt into a trap. If I hadn't touched it or fed it, no one would have hurt it. I had brought death upon a frightened, unknowing dog. I felt like a monster to have brought it home.

The Shadow plopped down beside me and folded his legs.

"I bet she'd be a beauty with a little cleaning," he remarked.

At once I turned away, afraid that he'd see me crying.

"You have a good soul," he said to me.

With tears still in my eyes I looked at him, needing to see his expression in order to accept his compliment. If only he'd known what a terrible soul I truly had.

"Cynicism," he said, "is the greatest betrayal of a good soul. Remember that. Don't ever let anyone tell you that you are a bad man, Erik."

I nodded. I didn't feel like a good person. I had never felt like anyone until I had met him.

"She's dying," he said under his breath.

"I know."

"She won't be able to walk and follow us and I doubt she'll allow you to pick her up."

My throat tightened. Now I would betray her, this poor creature who'd been bitten to death, her puppies dead or stolen, her life unknown.

He stood without saying another word and I knew he wished to take our leave. With a heavy heart, I forced myself to follow him. She'd die where she lay, this nameless creature. She'd die with a small meal in her belly as she watched us abandon her.

Before I reached the edge of our camp and untied Moon, I glanced back at her one last time. She'd moved. God knows how, but she'd moved in a desperate attempt to follow us. She whined, crawled forward in a dog's way of begging us to stay with her.

"You have two hours," The Shadow said. "That is all we can afford to give to a dead dog."

I barely heard him speak as I scooped up the dog and carried her toward the water's edge, intent on cleansing her fur. If she'd die, she'd die beautiful, cared for in her last hours. If she lived? Perhaps I would redeem myself. Perhaps the edge of cynicism that lingered in my soul would leave me at peace.


	24. Loyalty

CONTEST! Check out my website under the Erika Kire section and VOTE! I'll post a photo of the prize hopefully by Friday. Please go vote on the best pick up line. There are some funny, funny people out there.

My Gabrinaland citizens said that this should come with a warning for tissues. Disturbing situation follows and some readers may want to proceed with caution. NDBRs: The chapter is now complete.

Giver24

If she lived or died, it was my doing. My hands shook as I carried a bucket of water and one of my freshly washed shirts to the injured dog and sat beside her. Gently I placed my hand near her muzzle and allowed her to smell me, hoping she could smell my willingness to help her and not the pungent scent of my fear that I would kill her.

Her little stump of a tail wiggled and she lowered her head. For a moment I thought she would close her eyes and take her last breath, but she didn't. She merely exhaled and waited, deciding she could trust me.

"Head first," I mumbled as I took my pocketknife and ripped off one of my shirt sleeves. I soaked it in the bucket of water and wrung it out while The Shadow came to sit beside me. He didn't say a word as I cleaned her wounds, my eyes clouding with tears as she whimpered.

Her flesh was raw, the muscles along the back of her neck and shoulders exposed where the bites were the deepest. Flies buzzed around her and I shooed them away, knowing that if they laid eggs in her cuts she was as good as dead. Flies, however, were the least of her worries. Blood still oozed from her injuries and I covered them as best I could with sections from my shirt.

"Do we have anything left for her to eat?" I asked. My voice was tight with worry.

"Tomorrow's breakfast," The Shadow answered.

I looked into the dog's sad brown eyes. She'd placed her trust in me, a boy, when it was men who had brought her to the brink of death. I rubbed her chin, which she rested on my knee.

"I won't be hungry tomorrow morning," I said despite my stomach already growling.

The Shadow frowned but didn't protest. He handed me one of the leather sacks and lay back in the grass. "You may do as you wish with your supper so long as you don't lag behind tomorrow. We must reach Paris by the end of the month. Joshua is expecting us."

I barely listened to his words. For the moment only this dog mattered to me. I had unrealistic images of her suddenly finding her strength and briskly trotting behind me all the way through Germany into France. I imagined her as a great pheasant hunter, a companion trotting along rivers, a friend for the untraveled road. In her soft eyes I saw the will to live—but I didn't know if she could manage to stand, much less follow me in less than two hours.

"It isn't fair," I blurted out suddenly.

My uncle refused to meet my eye. He did nothing more than nod.

"I will stay with her."

"No, my child."

"Only for the remainder of the day. Then we'll catch up to you."

"Erik—"

"I walk fast. You may take the donkey and I shall walk."

"It's far too dangerous for the two of us. We stay together."

I'd argue until I was out of breath, but the dog began to pant harder. I offered her food but she merely sniffed it and rested her head on my leg.

"By tomorrow she'll be well-rested," I said under my breath.

"We don't have until tomorrow."

"Why not?"

"Because we've many miles to walk and little time to waste."

"I'm not wasting time," I argued.

"No, you're not. I'm very proud of you, Erik, but no matter how much time you dedicate to her, the kindest fate for this creature is a swift death."

I wanted to cover her stubby ears so that she wouldn't hear such words. Instead, I bent and kissed the top of her head, careful to avoid the puncture wounds near her nose.

"She's strong," I whispered.

"But not strong enough. Not for this."

His words angered me, because I knew he was correct. Though no matter what, I wouldn't give up on her. Jaw clenched, I stubbornly bound the remainder of my shirt sleeves around her legs and then removed the shirt from my back and covered her torso to keep the flies and gnats away.

"Erik," my uncle warned.

"I don't care."

"You must do what is necessary."

Tears threatened. Heat rose along the back of my neck and the worst pain I had ever felt settled in my heart. I was losing. In the past I had always failed myself, but now I stood on the brink of failing someone else. Not a person who held me in high regard but a dog who had done nothing more than trust me. Unconditional respect, unhindered affection…I saw in her eyes everything I felt for The Shadow. Her life was mine. I couldn't deny her, couldn't abandon her, couldn't look away from her gnarled face.

The Shadow moved my pocketknife closer to my leg but didn't say a word. He stood and walked away, leaving me to collect my thoughts and make a decision. Unable to speak, I lay down beside the dog and continued to pet her, wondering how I could cross a bridge of compassion and kill this animal that depended on me.

It was for the best, but it didn't feel right to me. A lifetime of suffering deserved an ending with peace—but this wasn't peaceful, at least not for me. All I could think of was those beautiful dark brown eyes turning vacant, the little stub of a tail going still. I wouldn't be able to look at her once I cut her throat. I wasn't sure if I could bring myself to hold and attempt to comfort her once I betrayed her.

I suddenly realized I was sobbing into my shirt that covered her side. I tore out clumps of grass and beat my fist against the dirt. My heart felt as though it would shrivel and turn to dust.

And then she nudged my face with her muzzle and knocked my mask from my face. Her soft, warm tongue laved my cheeks. There it was settled: I wouldn't kill her. Even if it was for the best, even if it was necessary, I couldn't hurt her. Quite possibly my decision hurt her worse and made her suffer more, but I accepted my weakness.

The Shadow returned and stood over me. "We need more water, Erik."

I gazed up at him and studied the hardened expression on his face. My heart beat faster, my hands still trembling. With my eyes cast down I stood and reached for the nearly empty bucket. In my heart I knew I shouldn't have turned once I walked away, but I felt compelled. Tears pricked my eyes and I held my breath.

The Shadow knelt beside the wounded animal, a skinning knife in hand. He held her by the muzzle and I closed my eyes. Barely able to see where I walked, I slunk away until my feet were in the river and the sound of flowing water drowned out my pathetic cries.

With my hand over my mouth I knelt in the river. Rocks dug into my knees, but my pain was of little concern. I wondered if she was dead yet or if she struggled to breathe. I wondered if The Shadow spoke to her or if he left her to die alone.

The last thought disturbed me and I was forced to my feet. Bewilderment turned to anger as I could not fathom this creature's last moments in solitude. Hands balled into fists, I crested the hill and searched the small glade where I had abandoned her.

The Shadow squatted beneath a pine tree, his body at an angle. His hand, which I could barely see, was covered in blood. My vision swayed and I thought I would pass out, but somehow I walked toward him and opened my mouth. No words emerged. I merely stood some twenty paces away with my mouth agape.

"She knew," he said.

Dumb with grief, I merely nodded. I had no idea what his words meant, but I didn't see a body and assumed he'd already buried her at least under the leaves.

"She wanted to follow you the moment you walked away," he said softly. "Far be it from me to deny her request, especially when she's shown her tenacity."

Through tear-filled eyes I followed his gaze and found the animal laying with her head held up and her tongue hanging from the corner of her mouth. I put my fists to my eyes and stumbled toward her.

"How?" I whispered. Only moments before I had thought for certain that she would die yet now she lay watching me.

The Shadow placed his hand on my shoulder. "Loyalty has kept her alive."


	25. Theft for Survival

Thanks to my NDBRs for catching the typos and to Teresa for editing. Reminder to check out my website and vote for the best pick up line on the Introducing Erika Kire page.

Giver25

My fears of a life lived in solitude had diminished, and it was on account of a nearly dead dog.

With an animal that depended on me, I forgot about my miseries. The hours I had spent secretly thinking of my mother and father were dedicated to another living creature's survival. In a sense I had made myself God over one being, but I was a sympathetic God who was ruled by another: My uncle.

I couldn't tell at first if he was pleased by my newfound joy or if he would have rather abandoned the animal. He allowed me moments to myself, and when I found him he was often asleep. I didn't bother him as I found I enjoyed my own company as long as I could stay busy, and with Moon and the dog—which I'd taken to simply calling Girl—I was occupied for most of the three days we remained camped.

Whoever had owned Girl never returned for her. I kept her hidden beneath my blanket for most of the day, which also prevented flies from laying eggs in her tender, healing skin. She was friendly enough, didn't bark, and never made much of a fuss. Much of my own personality was reflected in hers and I wanted nothing more than to keep her content. A boy and his dog. There was no better image in the world than a boy and his dog—save perhaps a father and his son.

"How is she?" my uncle asked on the third morning.

He looked worn and haggard, his face drawn and eyes drooping and red. "She's walking," I said. I pointed across the small camp where she lay watching us. "She crawled there when I walked to the creek for water."

He grunted. "We shall leave tonight. Tell her we will wait for no one."

I watched him walk away and thought that the dog could have kept a better pace than he could. He'd barely touched his supper ever since Girl had joined our tribe. I wondered if he was unhappy. I had often refused meals in my childhood when my mood was sullen.

Since we'd lazed around for the majority of our time, I offered to find food. By finding food I meant stealing, which I'd become good at thanks to my light footfalls and swiftness.

"Wait until it is dark," he replied.

We ate stale bread and rested until the sun set and fog rolled into the clearing, wisps of mist curling up into the trees. By then my stomach ached with hunger and my head felt light. I tied Girl to a tree so that she couldn't follow my path, slung my pack over my shoulder, and then stole off into the darkness. There was a farm up ahead, and as I jumped over the fence I smelled a feast in the air.

At once I saw the smokehouse and knew there was a meal to be had. Several meals, if my luck held out. The sound of people talking inside the farmhouse did nothing to deter my path or my intentions. My tribe depended on me for their survival.

Silent as a ghost, I padded across the tree-filled yard. My eyesight in the dark was keen and I easily avoided crunching any fallen leaves or fruit from the trees. I waited once I reached the smokehouse door and discovered a wagon no more than ten paces away. A canvas tarp covered the back of it, but there were several items lying on the ground. One was a burlap sack. Potatoes or onions, I assumed.

I felt like the luckiest boy in the world, having my choice of food laid out before me and not a soul to keep me away. Greedily I opened the smokehouse door, took down a whole chicken, and placed it into my pack.

With a grin spread wide across my face I swiftly grabbed several tomatoes and whatever else I could toss inside.

It was then that I heard a low growl behind me and knew it was not Girl who stood snarling at my back.

The pack on my shoulder grew heavier, and I knew that it would be a choice between dying with my stolen goods or abandoning my bounty and running for my life. I was fast, yes, but not fast enough to outrun dog. I knew this without a doubt and somehow—through a cloud of terror—managed to consider my options.

The wind howled through the trees and I glanced up at a swaying branch. With one hand I grabbed a bushel and whipped it from the back of the wagon while I stepped up and jumped from the flatbed to the tree branch. Somehow I managed to keep the pack over my shoulder as I lifted myself up and shimmied into the tree.

The dog snapped and growled, his paws trampling the vegetables I had hurled to the ground. In an instant there were two men, a woman, and several children crowded around, but by the time they had arrived I had managed to seat myself high in the tree. With my legs curled up to my chest, I held my breath and waited.

"Good boy," the farmer said. "Now sit."

"He thinks he's earned his keep over a gale of wind," his wife remarked.

The dog excitedly barked around the tree, pausing only to sniff the wagon. No one bothered to look up, but even if they had it was too dark for them to see me crouched on my branch. Since they hadn't bothered to check on their meat, they didn't appear to care much about their dog still growling at the dark.

A good twenty minutes must have passed while the people evaluated the situation and eventually lured the dog away. The animal continued to bark, but the farmers apparently thought it was concerned about the items falling, which they passed off as a wild animal.

Once they returned inside, I climbed halfway down the tree and traveled across a branch and into another tree. Like a trapeze artist I made my way across the yard, never touching the ground until I reached the fence. With the balance of a cat I landed on my toes and ran across the fence until the trees turned dense and I found myself at our camp. Moon bared his teeth at me and kicked while Girl whined and loped forward as far as her tether would allow. The Shadow was asleep with his hat covering his face. If not for his snoring I wouldn't have known where he was as he was tucked completely under his blanket.

He looked thinner than I had remembered him. It was as though he'd lost substantial weight while I was off stealing supper.

"What happened?" he asked from beneath his hat. "I heard an awful lot of noise coming from your direction."

"Nothing," I answered.

"It didn't sound like nothing."

"There was a dog in the yard."

He immediately removed his hat from his face. "You have a way of constantly running into four-legged creatures."

I smiled. "I didn't run into this one. He cornered me." Suddenly I felt cocky from my near-death encounter. I opened my pack and showed him how well I had done.

Together we shared the duty of washing and cutting the vegetables. I was allowed to cook, which I did while I casually recounted my adventure of eluding a beast—which was now recalled as being the height of a horse—and climbing a tree much like a monkey.

The Shadow laughed. "While this might amuse you for the remainder of the evening, do not take such brazen risks again, my boy."

"I will not be caught next time, not even by a dog."

He smiled. "You are all I have. I do not wish to lose you when we have many days ahead of us still."

"Months," I said cheerfully.

"Weeks," he said softly.

I chose to ignore his words as we divided our meal between the two of us and then I shared my portion with Girl. Moon received a pear, which he ate alone, his tail swishing in the night.

"How long until we reach your son's home?" I questioned.

"I shall send him another letter tomorrow. Within three weeks we should be at his doorstep, begging for a place to stay."

I frowned, wondering if we would be turned away. It seemed a shame to travel all this distance only to be shunned at the door.

"But you are his father," I said.

"Ah, I have forgotten that you are a serious young man, not a whimsical child." He flashed a smile. "You will enjoy him very much. He is a good man. A terrible musician, he always says, but a good man." He leaned forward and offered Girl some of his food, which she accepted. Their interaction relieved me as I wasn't sure if he was fond of our newest addition. "And I believe he has a dog or two of his own. The donkey, however, will be a surprise."

An hour later our camp was cleared and we were on our way to Paris, picking our way through the dark. Girl stayed close to my side. She seemed to have little trouble keeping up with our pace.

We saw no one for hours, but we were constantly on our guard. Often he would pause, hold his hand up, and listen. After several moments he would lower his hand and nod. It frightened me each time he did this but I never said a word. I didn't want him to think of me as a coward lingering in shadows, too afraid to show myself.

"What is it like there?" I asked. "In Paris, I mean to say."

"I doubt it's like anything you've seen before."

I nodded, unsure of whether that was good or bad news. What I had known had not been pleasant, though I assumed it could be worse. In my heart I hoped to find a barren city, or a secret realm I could call my own.

He apparently noticed the change in my demeanor and grasped my shoulder as we walked. "The change of scenery will do you good," he replied. "As will the company."


	26. Beguiler

Giver26

"Beguiler"

While I relished my musical talents, I marveled more at my cunning ways. Fools could learn several notes on a piano. It was a trait easily learned—or so I thought. I'd learned to play it. I knew from what The Shadow told me that music was in my blood.

But to deceive? No, this was a talent all my own, one which set me apart from the rest. I was not a Kimmer, a musician. I was Erik, an aspiring thief who had little knowledge of what my coveted talent would demand from me. I merely knew that I was quick and quiet, which aided in my deception. I'd managed to elude a farmer and his dogs. What else could I elude if I had the inclination?

"Don't do that," The Shadow snapped at me.

I'd been burning leaves over the fire, fighting against the pain in my fingertips to test my endurance. Ignorance was the companion I kept at all times. Fueled by the churning of a man's body that longed to be set free, harnessed by boyish stupidity and naiveté, I was anxious to test my boundaries once more.

"You'll ruin your fingers."

I dropped the leaf into the fire and plucked another one from the ground. "It doesn't hurt."

"Then I'll drive a spit through your mouth and hang you over the fire." He grinned inwardly, quelling my combative nature with a baseless threat.

I would have continued but he brought his hand to his face and scratched his nose with his thumb. I studied his claw-like hand and felt a pinch of shame in my gut. Time and again he'd protected me, yet for the moment I didn't want to be shielded. I wanted to experience the whole world.

"When do we travel by water?" I asked.

Girl stretched out and kicked me in the back with her front legs. She was still riddled with scabs but had survived her dance with death. With scars crisscrossing her back and her ears permanently displayed as chewed-off stumps, she would guard me fiercely. I wasn't certain if I was her master or her puppy.

The Shadow groaned. "Soon."

"How soon?" I had decided to annoy him. A nameless rush filled my insides, a tide borne of desire that bordered on sexuality. I wanted something badly but couldn't understand what I wanted. Whatever pumped through my veins was being denied.

"Go to sleep."

"The fire will die and we'll freeze to death."

He chuckled to himself. "It's not cold enough for us to freeze to death. And besides, you have a dog and I have a donkey to keep me warm."

I was too restless to remain still. Before he could say another word I climbed to my feet and looked around for wood to add to our fire. We were not the only people in the vicinity, I knew, and most of the dried wood had already been taken. Two girls and their father were some five hundred feet away. Past them were two brothers in their late thirties. One of them had a lazy eye. The other had too many teeth. Along with them was a man who claimed he was a preacher. He didn't look clean enough to be a preacher.

"Tire yourself out. I'll return shortly."

"Where are you going?"

"You have the personality of a fly one moment and a raccoon the next. To see if the man and his daughters need anything for the night. We have food to spare."

On account of my quick hand, I thought proudly.

He struggled to his feet and limped from our camp. For two weeks—ever since we'd gathered our belongings and I'd claimed the dog—he'd complained of sore feet. Most of the time he refused to ride upon the donkey. I shrugged it off as nothing more than personal preference. Despite my own nearly lethal dose of pride I didn't recognize his dismissal as the need to prove his strength. I merely thought he didn't like the donkey.

I kept myself busy, eventually stumbling upon several blackberry bushes hidden amongst thorns. I scraped the back of my hands raw as I plucked handfuls of berries and stuffed them into my mouth. Tangy yet sweet, I sighed and wished I'd had honey or sugar with which to coat them.

"He's a good boy."

The sound of my uncle's voice caused a breath to lodge a breath in my throat.

"Spirited, but he has a good heart."

"You will watch him closely tonight. I do not want a boy's desires to prey upon my girls."

"He's a man, not an animal. He will not set off to rape and kill in the middle of the night, I assure you."

Blood drummed through my ears. I didn't want to be watched over, monitored to protect good, wholesome individuals. I didn't want to be questioned about my motives. I would not attack him or his daughters. Why would I want to harm them?

"I will not risk evil on my daughters, be they thoughts or actions."

I stalked away, tromped noisily through the fallen leaves and twigs. My feet plunked through the river, indifferent to the disturbance. I didn't care if I woke everyone in the vicinity, didn't give a damn if I woke every man, woman and child on the face of the earth. If they wanted a warning then so be it. There I was, fuming at their insinuations.

Were they satisfied, I wondered? Should I attach a bell to my neck? Tie myself to a tree for their safety? Live within a locked cage?

My teeth ground together. I continued to walk as far and as fast as I could, leaving behind the smell of open fires and supper. I felt confined on the inside, caged by my body, by the perception of my mask.

With darkness surrounding me I tore the cloth mask from my face and nearly whipped it into the woods but I stopped. My heart thundered, my hands shook. In reckless abandon I had still recognized the perimeter on which I stood, the line between animalistic rage and human frustration.

I pulled back from the edge and took a breath, clutching the mask to my chest. Somehow, in some damnable way, I'd managed to arouse myself.

I hated this body and its new, uncontrollable functions. With a hard thud I collapsed in the darkness, not wanting anything to do with my unbidden lust. I was reminded of my father, of how he'd stood over me in threat instead of guidance and protection. Much to my disgust I was forced to either suffer the pain or ease it. Quietly, shame lingering on the horizon, I held my breath and eased it. Relief, not satisfaction rippled through my insides. In the back of my mind I heard the girls' voices. Their laughter mingling with splashes of water, their teasing words as they chased each other.

And then I realized it wasn't in my head. They were near. Too near. I fumbled to stand and button my pants. I'd barely managed to cover myself when a soft body bumped into mine. In darkness I reached out, grabbed an equally soft arm and braced her. The mask fell from my grasp, replaced by more flesh, more softness…and warmth.

Darkness did not hide her face from my eyes. I saw the curve of her lips like bowstrings, saw a flash of her colorless eyes fringed with long lashes. She didn't look me in the eye because she couldn't see me in the darkness, especially not past her long bangs. A woodland sprite, I thought for a moment. I'd caught one.

"Excuse me," she whispered. She inhaled deeply, smelling what I didn't know. I smelled her as well. "My sister…"

"Over here!" another voice called.

But I held onto her longer than I should have, allowed my fingers to run across her forearms.

She giggled nervously. "I said excuse me."

"Yes," I answered.

"Then you must release me."

"Yes." My grasp on her tightened.

"What are you doing?"

"I don't know."

A soft giggle, of appreciation or fear, I didn't know. It was difficult to differentiate in the darkness.

"I asked you to release me."

"I know."

"Or I will scream," she whispered.

In a heartbeat I was ten feet away from her and cowering behind a tree. My curiosity fled and with it so did all sense of arousal and sexuality. Ashamed of myself, I shook with regret.

"I'm…I'm not a beast," I whispered.

She didn't say a word. Truthfully I had no idea if she still stood there.

"And…and I'm not…evil."

My heart twisted and tears threatened to reduce me to a child. I wanted her to answer me, to reassure me that I was correct. I wasn't a beast, I wasn't evil…I was bitterly, heart achingly confused.

"You, sir," she answered at last. "Are a beguiler, a seducer, and a thief of young women."

She giggled again and tore through the woods, chasing after her sister. I was left in shadows, my mask discarded, cloaked only in mystery.

I was fascinated by the power of darkness and touch. How perfectly they melded, what comfort and unknown peril they delivered. My hands still burned with the heat of her flesh, my nose filled with the smell of both her and the forest.

"Beguiler," I whispered.

Of all the words ever used to name me, this one made me smile…almost as much as "thief."


	27. Blame and Trust

This ended up being a very long, very heartbreaking and terrifying chapter. For those of you who are aware of my baseball obsession, Phelan is (naturally!) the name of a player. I think it's an awesome name. Means "wolf" or something in Irish/Scottish. Not sure how that will come into play, but I bet it will. Thanks, NDBRs!

Giver27

For a long while I listened to the melody of wind in the trees and girls laughing. My hand was still warm where I'd held the girl by the arm. She'd felt like silk in my grasp…living, breathing silk.

And she'd terrified me like nothing else I'd ever known. But, it was a good terror. It fascinated me and frustrated me, this nameless sensation.

When I finally recovered my mask and dusted it off, I reluctantly followed the smell of smoke and the bright yellow licks of fire toward our camp. I heard my uncle's voice as well as the father of the two girls. They were still chasing one another, which had Girl in a terrible frenzy. She barked and whined at their antics and I heard the young tree I'd tied her to thrash about as she tugged on her leash.

"What do you intend to do with the boy?"

"Who? Erik?"

I froze no more than ten paces from the clearing. He made me sound like an animal that needed to be managed.

"Yes, the boy."

The Shadow sighed. "I'd hoped to be several days ahead by now in order to stop more frequently, but we're traveling to Paris."

"For what?" The man laughed as he questioned.

"My oldest son lives there." He grabbed hold of Girl's rope and pulled her toward him. The attention immediately silenced her and she licked his face.

The man grunted. "I heard your youngest son passed away. It saddened me to hear such news. You had much room in your heart for him."

I saw my uncle nod. His expression remained blank.

"What of the middle child?"

My uncle's eyes raised and met the other man's gaze. "What of him?" he snapped.

"Ah, you still don't speak to Phelan."

"I haven't seen him. If I saw him—"

"Would he speak to you? That's the better question."

My eyes narrowed. I had no idea he had three sons. He'd only spoken of two, as far as I could recall. Why hadn't he told me of his middle son?

"I gave him my blessing when he left my home. You act as though there is much to tell when there isn't."

The man shrugged. "Honestly, I had not expected to see you this far south. Ricard told me your health was poor."

The Shadow cocked his head to the side. "It is."

"Then why are you about in the middle of the night?"

"I could ask you the same question."

"Labor," he replied. "The last storm that went through the harbor killed business. Better off harvesting seaweed than fish." The man tossed a handful of twigs into the fire. "You have my excuse, old man, now where is yours?"

"I have no excuse. Merely duty."

"Sympathy?"

He hunched his shoulders and took a deep breath. "Sympathy implies that I pity Erik, which I do not. He needs no one's pity. He's strong, intelligent, and talented."

"You speak of him as you would an angel."

"So be it," The Shadow shrugged.

"Come, now, old man. What do you know of the boy? Honestly?"

"I know that he stands on the brink of a nightmare you and I have no way of ever comprehending."

The man stared at him blankly.

"I cannot give him riches and I cannot provide the world at his feet. I offer him company and directions to Paris. From there it is my hope that Joshua will allow him a place in his home."

"And Phelan?"

"I will write him a letter. Perhaps he now lives closer to Joshua. The more family he has around him, the better for Erik."

"Will your son accept a total stranger?"

"Erik is no stranger," The Shadow said. He said nothing more as he gazed up and met my eye.

I didn't cower or pretend that I hadn't overheard his conversation. I had a feeling that he'd known I was there from the moment I crept up and took my spot amongst the timber and brush.

The man, however, was startled by my presence and leapt up from the ground. He backed away immediately as though he feared I would infect him. My heart twisted in my chest but I ignored him and took a seat beside my dog, who wriggled with delight.

"Good night, Arthur," my uncle said. He glanced at me and smiled. "Watch your troublesome daughters. They threaten to wake the trees."

The man didn't say another word. He stalked off into the night, and once he was gone I felt drowsy.

"You've settled down, I see," he murmured.

I stifled a yawn. "A little," I disagreed.

He chuckled to himself. "It never fails to amaze me how you must always disagree on the most inconsequential details."

I smiled. "No, I don't."

"Never." He grinned and patted Girl's rump. "Now, allow an old man to sleep. The sun will rise before you know it."

He was right. My internal clock ticked erratically thanks to our constantly changing sleep habits. We traveled as my uncle could tolerate, which sometimes left us wandering through the night and other times saw us traveling in broad daylight. It didn't much matter to me when we traveled. The adventure was the same, the horizon always one I'd never seen before.

I slouched down until my back was against the ground and the dog was practically lying on my chest. She brought me comfort, and while she was beside me I slept soundly. No one had ever nudged me in order to draw closer, but Girl could not inch herself near enough.

"You saw his daughters, didn't you?" my uncle questioned softly.

"Yes," I answered.

He was silent for a long while and I thought he'd gone to sleep. "May I ask what happened?"

"She bumped into me."

"What were you doing?"

My cheeks burned. "Nothing."

"What happened to your hands?"

I glanced at the scratches along my knuckles, then turned my hand over and studied the dark blue stains along the creases in my palm.

"Eavesdropping?"

"No. I went for a walk. I found wild berries." I decided he didn't need to know what I did when I briefly stopped.

"You had better hope they hold their tongues," he muttered.

I sat bolt upright. "But it wasn't my fault! They were running…like…like imps! I was merely sitting—"

"I thought you had gone for a walk."

My jaw twitched. "I'd sat down for a moment."

He exhaled. "Regardless of whether you were sitting or standing, you had still better hope that they don't tell their father. He's protective of them…despite the fact that the world needs protecting from them more than he needs to protect them from the world."

"You have met him before?"

"I courted his wife long before they met." He smiled. "I do believe she broke my heart over him."

"I didn't do anything to his daughter," I mumbled. My ears started to burn. "I swear to you."

"You needn't swear to me. I trust you."

For a brief moment I considered arguing. There was nothing to argue, but I was certain I could find some point in which I disagreed. Before I blurted out words I'd later regret, I took a deep breath. It wasn't worth it.

With a sigh I lay down and rested my head on my folded arms. "Thank you," I said softly.

"For what?"

"For trusting me."

-o-

We woke to the sound of someone bellowing early in the morning. The sky had barely turned a pale yellow when footsteps stomped toward our camp. I sat up, donned my mask, and turned my face away.

"Bruised!"

"What is this, Arthur?" my uncle groggily questioned.

"Look! Look what he's done to her!"

The man dragged his daughter forward and thrust her arm out toward my uncle. "Look!" he shouted again.

The Shadow rubbed his eyes and peered at her arm. "What am I looking at? This? Why, it looks like she bumped into a tree while she was running about last night."

"_He_ touched her!"

Terrified, I froze and stared at my knees, keeping one hand around Girl. I thought about the young woman begging me to release her and how I had not. I'd held her tighter—so tightly I bruised her. I was evil, monstrous…

"Oh, now, don't be hasty. Calm yourself, Arthur, before your heart gives out."

"I will kill him!"

"What proof do you have that he is responsible?"

"My daughter's word."

"You mean to kill a man over a bruise? Because your daughter blames him for her actions?"

"How is she responsible?"

"Honestly? Because she ran wild through the darkness. She's fortunate she didn't split her head open."

"Shut up! I will kill him!"

The girl shrieked and I glanced up in enough time to see a boot coming at my face. I swayed backward but it only lessened the impact. He kicked me in the center of the face and I reeled. It had been three months since anyone had hit me and at first I was stunned.

Only my father had beaten me—truly beaten me. I didn't know if I should lie still or fight back. My eyes filled with tears from the sudden throb of pain, body shook as I comprehended what had happened. The girl began to cry, apologizing to no one in particular.

I licked my lips and tasted blood. Glancing down I saw my shirt splattered in blood and realized it was my own.

"Did you kick me?" I questioned blankly. I had yet to realize exactly what had happened. The moment seemed surreal, cruelly twisted and distorted.

The man had backed off. He stared at me in horror as I wiped the back of my hand across my mouth. My mask was crooked but still on my face. For a moment I forgot it and concentrated on the splotches of red surrounding me.

"Did you kick me?" I asked again.

He nodded, still seething--and terrified.

"In the face?" I stood, quite calm on the outside despite the torrent I felt growing within.

His expression sobered and he backed away. Blindly I followed him, my hands balled into fists and my legs stiff.

All of those years I had taken beatings without so much as a sound of defiance. Night after night, week after week, I curled into a ball, rocked myself back and forth, and waited until it was safe to breathe again.

This time was different. There was no cage to contain me, no familiar face to hold me down. I was free—free to fight back. To hurt, to destroy, to fight and kill as I'd never done before. I looked at him, at this man I didn't know. This man who didn't know me had kicked me in the face because he thought I'd bruised his daughter.

"Why?" My voice trembled. "Why do you think I am evil?"

He wouldn't answer me, not until I had him with his back against a tree.

"Why?" I questioned louder than before.

"I apologize," he said weakly, terrified of my face, my presence…I didn't know what he feared but I saw it in his eyes, a reflection what I felt like at the very core of my being.

"Erik, come here," my uncle said.

I ignored him and stared at the man. "I want to hurt you," I said softly. So much anger, so much burning deep inside my belly. "I want to hurt you very badly."

Tears pricked the man's eyes and he nodded, fearful of my calm that barely hid what I felt threatening to burst from my body.

"I want to do more than kick you," I told him quite honestly. "I would like to kill you."

"Erik. I said come here at once," my uncle said.

Anger boiled, rose to the very brink and threatened to destroy me. My hand balled into a fist and I imagined hitting him in the nose, imploding his face, damaging him worse than he damaged me.

A hand grabbed me roughly by the shoulder and dragged me back. "I trust you," he said between his teeth. He looked me dead in the eye, and for a heartbeat I didn't recognize the man who had stopped me from killing. "Erik. I trust you."

My lips parted and I stared at him, blinking away the tears that had clouded my eyes. A rush of pain brought my hands to my face and I thought for certain I would pass out from loss of blood.

The Shadow guided me to a stream and forced me to kneel beside him. He removed my mask and looked sadly into my eyes.

"Put your head down," he said softly.

His tone remained gentle as he splashed water onto my bare face and examined my nose. I was too ashamed to speak to him, too fearful of the anger I recognized. I had inherited more than music.

When it was determined that my nose was not broken and I would survive, he helped me to my feet and handed me my mask. I stared at it in misery, wishing it could cover more of the ugliness than it did.

"Erik…" he started. He didn't look at me and I didn't look at him. I thought for certain I would never look him in the eye again. "I fear we haven't long enough," he said under his breath.

His hand left my shoulder and he took a step away from me. He didn't need to say another word. I felt it in my heart. I was beyond saving.


	28. Fate Worse than Death

Giver28

It wasn't until we'd packed up our belongings that I noticed Girl barking or the rain that mingled with the cool breeze. Color, sensation, smell…it had all left me, abandoned me when I longed to feel the world more than ever.

Hair damp, clothes sticking to my body, I stuffed my blanket into my pack and ignored the freely-given affection of my only friend. Girl nudged me with her wet nose, begging for the attention I feared giving. If she licked my face she would taste my bitterness.

"Erik," The Shadow said.

I stared at the ground briefly before I lifted my gaze.

"I'm not angry with you," he said.

No, I thought to myself. It was worse than anger.

"I'm afraid for you," he said flatly.

With a slow nod I looked away and wondered if he feared for me or if he feared for his own safety while in my presence.

For two hours we walked in silence. The rain cleared and the day turned tepid and bright. Girl continued to bounce around me, licking at my fingers and rearing up until I finally agreed to throw her a stick. She bounded forward, scrambling around Moon until she retrieved the stick and brought it back. For an animal who'd nearly died, she showed amazing resilience.

Tragically, I no longer shared her optimism. I felt closer to death than ever before.

As we passed a herd of noisy sheep, I considered my actions and soon began to wonder if I was at fault. I hadn't hit the man, nor had I brutalized his daughter. True, she'd been bruised, but it wasn't intentional. I didn't even know if it was my doing. She could have very well bumped into a tree or fallen over a rock. I was not the only one in the woods, either.

Suddenly I looked up and caught my uncle's eye.

"Best not to dwell," he said. "What happened is in the past. It could have been better or it could have been a great deal worse."

"He wanted to kill me."

"True. And you wanted to kill him as well."

"Because he kicked me." The mere thought of it sent my blood racing through my veins.

He sighed and gave a nod. "His daughter should not have been racing about the woods like a blind, mad fool. You should have told me immediately that she ran into you, especially when you returned and found her father in our camp. He should not have reacted so strongly and most certainly should not have reacted in such a violent manner."

"And I should not have threatened him?"

He was silent a moment.

"Uncle?"

He licked his lips. "There is no simple answer. I will not tell you that it is wrong to defend yourself when you are threatened, but..."

Breath held, I waited, anxious for his words.

"You're stronger than you know, Erik. You're tall, and I highly doubt Arthur knew you were only thirteen years of age. I doubt he would have threatened you if he'd known." He shook his head. "But that is not my point. You changed the moment you realized what had happened. The look in your eyes, the way you stood…you were not the same boy I've known these past weeks."

I bowed my head and shuddered. He was correct. I wasn't the same boy he'd whisked away from the seaside village. My shell had cracked and a monster had been born in the wake of fear.

"If you allow rage to hold sway, you may find that you've hurt more people or taken more lives than you could possibly imagine. Is that what you want?"

"No." I didn't know what I wanted other than to feel like a normal boy, and what exactly that entailed completely eluded me. I felt somewhat better than I had, but no less confused. "Then what must I do?" I asked.

He exhaled. "That's a good question."

My shoulders dropped at his lack of an absolute answer. Girl whined for me to throw her stick and I complied, whipping it much further than before to keep her occupied.

"Have you ever wanted to kill someone?"

He looked at me and frowned. "Yes, Erik, I have."

"But you didn't?"

His lips twitched. "Anger has gotten the best of me in the past. Once. But I will never allow it to do so again because I regret it deeply."

My eyes widened in horror at his revelation and fascination with his words. I felt no fear when I looked at him, merely…kinship. I offered a weak, tentative smile of acceptance. Girl returned and I threw her stick again. My tribe had changed, twisted before my very eyes. I wasn't certain how I felt about it, but I saw him as a stronger, more powerful man than ever before. Danger fascinated me in a way I found both sickening and tantalizing. Undiscovered possibilities danced through my mind. In him I saw fault and redemption, weakness overcome by power…my childhood and my adult life.

"Erik," he said suddenly. His gaze had hardened and I felt the need to stand straighter and earn his approval. He stared at me as though he understood what ran through my mind. "You do not want to become me."

But I did. More than ever. He showed me, perhaps unintentionally, that he was both a faulted man and a god.

I looked away from him and chewed on my lip, which hurt because, just like my nose, it was swollen and tender.

"Who was he?" I asked.

Long, dreadful silence passed and I gave up hope that he would answer. I'd finally done it, I thought, finally overstepped the invisible boundary.

At last I glanced at him and found him staring at me. He looked older, more tired than before.

"He was my son's father."

I swallowed hard. "Which one?" I whispered.

"Phelan," he answered. "I was away at sea for three months when a man entered my house. Joshua hid under his bed but my wife was not so fortunate. He left her, bleeding and blinded by his fists, near the well by our old house. Joshua found her the following morning. When I returned from sea that same week, she told me of a man with a long, red beard and mismatched eyes. The next day I decided to question a few of my friends, see if they'd seen or heard of him. It was then I discovered her attacker was fool enough to remain in town."

"And you killed him?"

"Anger overtook reason." He glanced at me, and before I could ask him, he elaborated. "He was living at an inn across town and I heard him bragging to several fishermen. Your father was amongst them. The two of them were gambling with the others, and the man had been caught cheating. Your father pinned him to the wall, which is how I found him."

He grew quiet for a moment. "When the commotion broke up and the rest of the fishermen left, I pulled him aside, asked him his name, and questioned him about a woman who'd been beaten. Never said her name or that I was her husband. He looked me dead in the eye and told me exactly what he'd done to her. He spoke without remorse, without any sense of feeling."

"Why?"

"I have no idea. I asked if he'd wanted money or food and he said he'd wanted neither. He'd wanted her, and he thought he'd take her and kill her." His voice remained even and I found myself walking a step behind him. "Broke his neck when I pushed him down the stairs, treating him with the same amount of humanity he'd treated my wife."

I had nothing to say or to do other than blink at him. His voice was like ice, his expression hardened almost beyond recognition.

"It wasn't my intention to kill him. I'd wanted to frighten him, but I pushed him harder than I thought, or he fell at an angle I hadn't intended…it doesn't matter. He died. I killed him and told the innkeeper that I'd seen him stumble from his room and miss the first stair. No one questioned my story any more than they questioned my wife, who said she'd fallen and blackened her eyes."

My hands began to shake and I felt tears prick my eyes for the people who were my family, if only in name.

"Three months later I discovered my wife was with child. I'd not touched her, left her alone at her request. I had no regrets then for what I'd done. Yet, still it haunts me, this image of a man at the bottom of the stairs, his neck horribly twisted, his lifeless eyes open. He took my wife's life away as well, and I lived with her death…every day until she finally ceased to breathe and we buried her, me and my sons."

Girl returned with the stick in her mouth and forced it into my hand. A moment's distraction and my attempt at questioning came to an end. There was little for me to say in response, and as my uncle strolled ahead of me, I knew he no longer wished to speak.

"I have unintentionally burdened you, my son," he mumbled. "An old man should know when to keep himself silent."

"No," I replied quickly. "I trust you—with everything."

He looked at me and smiled. Unexpectedly he placed his hand on my shoulder and squeezed.

"We have a long ways to go," he said.

I wasn't certain if it was the road ahead he referred to, but I shivered and wondered if we would make it.


	29. Issue of Trust

His words gave birth to phantoms in my mind, which haunted me for days. The more I considered what he'd done—accident or not—the more I became wary. It disturbed me, this outwardly calm yet inwardly turbulent man, and I considered our past weeks together.

He seemed incapable of killing a man. The way in which he laughed when we spoke, the gentle nature in which he addressed me…the way he looked me in the eye and showed no sign of repulsion belied his past. A murderer would not have befriended me, I told myself. Only an angel could tolerate my presence—and I had found an angel of death.

He was a good person at heart. There was no other way to explain why he'd taken me under his care and supervision when I was destined to die by my father's hand. Loyalty persevered, however, and I felt I could forgive him for the news he shared with me. Yet it made it no easier to bear.

We never again spoke of the man he killed, but I thought of the incident often.

The weather grew intolerably hot over the next three days and we resorted to traveling at night once again. He blamed it on the heat, but I knew he was exhausted because of his health, and I had no qualms about only walking for a few hours a night. Even riding astride Moon was more than he could bear. He needed to sleep, and while he rested I took to reading by the fire.

The skies were clear, each star in the sky easily seen by the naked eye. While he was awake—and to keep me occupied and out of trouble—The Shadow insisted that I practice the violin. I did so at sunset while we prepared to start our trek and the travelers we passed were bedding down for the night. My talent was appreciated through gifts of food and sometimes coins. I'd taken to wearing my uncle's hat, which shielded my face from others. Unseen, I was a musical genius, one worthy of hearty applause.

But during the day the heat made me irritable and I spent most of my day tossing and turning. No matter how much I fanned my face I was still hot and sticky with sweat. There were too many people using the streams to cool themselves and I would not go near them. I wanted nothing to do with people. Thus far I had not experienced anything pleasant with others, aside from my uncle.

"It will cool down soon enough," my uncle promised. "I can already smell the rain in the air. It's a day or two off, but it will come."

"I despise heat," I glowered. "When I grow up, I'm going to have a house made of ice."

"Indeed." He chuckled, which only fueled my determination.

"And I will have it all to myself so that no one will bother me when I want to swim."

"If your house is made of ice it'll be too cold to swim, my boy."

"No, it won't. I'll heat the water."

He laughed heartily. "If you insist."

For all of my misery, I still managed to laugh. "You'll see. You may visit as long as you wish."

"Old men aren't fond of the cold. I'm afraid I'd stay in your heated water all day and all night." He looked at me with one eye opened and the other closed. "Besides, I thought you wanted to live alone."

"You would be my guest."

"What about Moon and Girl?"

"They would live with me."

"Then how could I possibly resist?" He blotted his face with his handkerchief. "Would you build your home yourself?"

"Yes," I answered, though I had no idea where I would begin.

"How?"

Suddenly the heat diminished and I sat up. "Do you have more paper?" I asked.

He handed me paper from his pack, and a pencil I sharpened with a knife. While I entertained myself, he closed his eyes and slept for several hours. Every so often I heard him snoring and I glanced up but he never woke, not even when Girl decided to nudge him in the chest and steal his dried beef directly from his shirt pocket.

With my drawing long completed, I rifled through his pack and discovered an envelope addressed to J. Kimmer. Glancing up, I made certain he was still asleep before I opened the unsealed envelope and swiftly scanned the contents. His handwriting was small and barely legible, which I assumed was on account of pinching a writing tool between his thumb and smallest finger.

I was too nervous to note anything in particular and shoved it into the pack before I was caught. Then I removed it again. I wanted to know what it said.

_Not enough time._

Only three words read before The Shadow grunted and turned onto his side. I sat frozen, note in hand. He now faced me. He would catch me.

Images flashed through my mind. A figure at the top of the stairs. The dark, musty cellar. Blood. My blood. On my shirt. On my face. On my hands. Beaten. Unable to cry out. Fearful. Still fearful.

I was afraid of what he would say much more than I feared what he would do—though I admit my thoughts lingered on the story he'd told me, what he was capable of doing. Perhaps he would unintentionally kill me. Over a note.

But instead of rousing, his lips parted and he sighed. He was fast asleep and I was more wide awake than ever. I glanced down at my trembling hands and the note still tightly clutched between my forefinger and thumb.

_There is not enough time._

The single sentence popped out at me. I wanted to read what came before, what came after, but Girl began to growl at the darkness and Moon tugged on her rope, and I spooked. I crammed the paper into the envelope and shoved it into the pack, mostly unread.

"What has upset the animals?" The Shadow questioned.

My gaze shot up and I looked at him. His eyes were still closed and he inhaled deeply.

"I don't know," I answered.

"And what has upset you?"

My heart stopped. "Nothing."

"Aye, something has. I can tell."

Suddenly my heart pounded and my breath lodged in my throat. Had he seen me?

His eyes remained closed but a smile lingered on his lips. "Your voice is different. Filled with…guilt."

"No," I blurted out.

He chuckled. "No, not at all."

I winced at the accusations, at my bald-faced lies. I was guilty. Fearful…and unable to hold my tongue.

"I…I looked."

His eyes popped open. "Excuse me?"

My stomach tightened and I felt as though I'd be sick. "I apologize."

"For what?"

"For looking."

"At what?"

"At the note to your son." Instinctively I turned my head to the side, fully expecting him to rise and stand over me.

"Ah, well, then I know my handwriting is legible still. It has been a long time since I've written a note."

My hands continued to tremble despite the amusement in his tone. Confused, I sat very still and waited for an explanation.

"Why didn't you ask if you could read it?"

More than fear, I was slapped with a sense of shame. Tears pricked the back of my eyes and I hung my head. "I don't know."

"Because you thought I would be angry?"

"Yes."

"And you decided it was better to deceive than to ask for permission?"

I was a terrible child, always sneaking about, always escaping. I shuddered.

"Yes."

He grunted and sat up. "You do not trust me?"

I lifted my head and stared at him. "I trust you."

"Should I trust you, my son?"

Blankly I stared at him, wanting to tell him yes but afraid to speak. I didn't know why I had done it, why I hadn't asked him what the note said. In truth I had read one line and stopped, but I couldn't tell him I had not succeeded in eavesdropping on his private affairs. I couldn't say a word.

"How did your house plans come along?" he asked after I failed to answer his question.

"Not well."

He studied me a moment. "You are quiet and you are very swift of hand. However, you have a greater gift than illusion, Erik." He paused and I stared at the ground. "You have music. Think of how many people listened to you play."

"Because they did not see my face." My chest hurt, the words cut through me. I could live with knowing I was different, that I was scarred…but it physically hurt to acknowledge it to another person, even one I loved dearly.

"Talent outweighs appearance, your gift for music—your appreciation for the violin and for how it is played will show through more clearly than anything physical. Face, hands, torso…none matter the moment you take up your violin."

But vainly, I wanted it to matter. I wasn't made of notes, decibels…I was flesh and blood. I was physical—and jealous of the beauty of my music.

"Now, let me see this house of yours."

Without looking him in the eye I handed him my folded piece of paper.

"A fine start," he announced after several moments of examining my attempt at architecture. Our eyes met and I could see it in his expression: He knew I was fearful. But he chose not to acknowledge it, at least not verbally. The warm smile returned to his gaunt face. "Now, what have we left to eat?"


	30. Self Doubt

Giver30

My nose and cheeks continued to hurt for weeks after I'd been kicked in the face, but emotionally I felt much worse. I wanted to be someone else, someone stronger. There were few consolations available, and while my uncle slept longer each day, I survived feeling as though I were utterly alone.

If not for the responsibility of two animals, I would have driven myself mad with my thoughts. Instead, I spent hours hunting—or rather sitting with my back to a rotting tree and watching wildlife emerge at dusk. Each time a creature approached, I sat with my arm around Girl. Three quail, a stag, and several rabbits lived a day longer with us on guard. Only Girl seemed disappointed.

Vibrant colors spread across the horizon. Bats flitted through the trees, eating unseen insects. The world was mysterious yet beautiful, and I longed to see what lay beyond the hills.

While the sun set, I listened to the sound of my own breathing and became aware of my living self. A heartbeat never before noticed, a pulse of blood through my clenched, then relaxed hands. I realized I didn't know myself; the world was not the only vast landscape foreign to my mind.

During the day, after I'd slept for six hours, I brushed Moon's mane and tail and kept her coat clean. She was, for several weeks, undoubtedly the most beautiful and well-groomed donkey ever. Yet still, despite my best efforts, she never failed to swish her tail and hit me in the face. She apparently wasn't impressed with my doting.

"Responsibility is good for a boy your age," The Shadow said one evening as he lay and watched the sun disappear. "And for a man my age as well."

I nodded and gingerly touched my upper lip, which he immediately noticed. His eyes filled with concern and he frowned.

"How are your teeth?"

I shrugged and he sat up, motioning for me to open my mouth. With my eyes averted, I felt like a horse showing my teeth before a potential sale.

"Your nose is still swollen," he concluded. He laid one hand on my shoulder while the other gently examined my cheek, nose, and upper lip. "Remove the mask. Allow it to heal."

I jerked my head back and swallowed hard, frightened of the concept. His hand, which had remained on my shoulder, gave an assuring squeeze. He smiled, his gaze locked on mine.

"Come now, my child. You know I will not shun you."

I looked around our camp as though expecting to find a crowd of people hiding in the bushes. His hand squeezed tighter, refusing to let me look away. Rather than comforted and assured, I felt like an animal forced into a corner. Shoulders hunched, I moved away until he released me.

"Please," I said under my breath. "Don't make me do this."

"It's for your comfort." He paused and looked me over. From the corner of my eye I saw him frown. "But I have made you more uncomfortable. My apologies, my son."

My stomach was in knots, and as my vision blurred, I feared I would pass out. Bruised…ghastly…I didn't want anyone to see me. Ever.

"Shall we continue to walk?"

I nodded and we collected our belongings with only casual conversation between us. My face perspired and the mask stuck to my forehead and cheek, which made me uncomfortable. As much as I wanted to remove the mask, I knew I'd lost my opportunity to do so. In silence I suffered through my self-damnation.

Within the hour we were on the road to France. My hair and face were soaked with perspiration. I was miserable, angry with myself, and in no mood for conversation.

Every few minutes The Shadow would look at me, his expression showing he was keenly aware of my discomfort. He said nothing, though I knew he wished to tell me I was being stubborn and foolish.

"I intend to write my son again tomorrow. What, if anything, would you like Joshua to know about you?"

"I don't know."

"Whatever you wish me to say, I will say. Unless you wish to say it yourself." His eyes narrowed and he stroked his stubbly chin. "Perhaps you should say it yourself. Penmanship is very important. In correspondence it's the only physical presentation of yourself."

"I want him to know I'm a musician," I blurted out.

"Oh, he knows that already. I told him you were very talented, quite possibly before I told him your name or your relationship."

"How much longer until we reach his home?"

"Not long."

"How long is not long?"

"To me? Not long. To an impatient youth? Forever." He smiled, which made me realize he was being playful.

"You are far too sullen for a boy of your age," he commented. "Before the end, I will see you laugh so hard you cannot catch your breath."

"The end of what?"

He hesitated a moment before he forced a smile. "The end of our journey. When we reach Paris."

I knew better than to believe his words. Heads bowed, we walked in silence until the sky became clouded and we were forced to light a lantern in order to see the way ahead. Dogs barked in the distance and sounded a warning of intruders. Girl responded with a growl, to which I gave her leash a tug. She quieted, though she walked with her head down and shoulders up, an angry stance if ever there was one.

"She doesn't approve of our path," The Shadow said. "Perhaps she has traveled this way before."

I held my breath and listened for an intruder in the night, but we were only accompanied by crickets and the occasional bird chatter. The road ahead and behind held pure darkness. I had only my tribe for comfort.

"You've turned quiet on me." When I turned, my uncle was looking at me. He tugged Moon to a stop and had me help him mount our pack mule. "Have I offended you?"

I shook my head but didn't feel like speaking. In the back of my mind I feared my father was at our heels. I'd thought of him a lot lately, especially after I'd been kicked. Foolishly, I had expected to leave the past behind me, but one instance had proven to me that violence was never far behind.

"Don't burden yourself with guilt. You've done nothing wrong, have you?"

By my appearance, I would always be wrong. Still, I shook my head and stared at the ground.

"Look at me, Erik."

I did as he requested, my throat tight. Nothing he said would make me feel differently. I knew what I was. From the very first time I had looked at my reflection I knew what I was…and I hated it.

"He was only one person. Do not allow one person to steal all sense of your dignity."

"No one will ever treat me differently." My voice trembled when I spoke. "No one will ever look at me…and not see…this."

"You don't know that for certain." His words were spoken without emotion, without conviction. "You must give others a chance."

"They will not give me a chance."

"Yes, they will." He waited for me to challenge him, but I didn't. "But only if you refuse to back down."

"I didn't back down," I argued.

"You're backing down now."

"From what?"

"From yourself. I will not tell you again, Erik. You are more than these scars. When you choose to believe that for yourself, you will live differently."

I forced a nod, though I hadn't absorbed a word he said. He didn't know what it was like, to be ridiculed the moment someone saw my mask—to instantly be reduced to an animal.

As if he knew my thoughts, he placed his claw-like hand on my shoulder. "You must look people in the eye and never let them see discomfort. They will respect you if you respect yourself."

I wanted to ask him how I could respect myself. My entire childhood had been spent within a cellar, my body and mind victims of my father's rage. Fear returned, as did hatred. I didn't want to take another step forward, to end this journey, to face the uncertainty of yet another life, another rebirth—one that I knew my uncle would not live to see.

We came to a sudden stop and he looked me in the eye for a long and uncomfortable moment. I wanted to look away, but couldn't. Emotion crept up, threatened me again—this dreaded feeling that tightened my throat and pricked the back of my eyes.

"What are you afraid of?" he asked. "Acceptance?"

Unable to speak, I shook my head. I couldn't fear something I would never have. And I feared something immensely tangible…the loneliness I knew would greet me. My cynical thoughts would not allow me to believe my cousin would receive me in the same manner my uncle had. His affection for me was a fluke. It would not happen twice, not to me.

He stared at my nose and lips, his expression grave. "Your father is gone, Erik, and you will never see him again. Does that please you or frighten you?"

"I don't know," I answered softly, honestly. I felt as though his footsteps were directly behind me, threatening to trample over my soul.

"Truly, you are your own worst enemy."

Inside and outside I hurt, my heart filled with fear, my gut twisting in agony. Time was my enemy, distance was my enemy…life was my enemy. But he was correct: I was my own worst enemy.

"Your cousin has many friends in Paris," he said casually. "Perhaps he will be able to speak with a composer and offer you an apprenticeship in music. You will need to hone your skills, refine yourself as a musician."

My heart skipped a beat. Music was the key to my soul, the bridge separating melancholy and mirth. "Why would a composer wish to offer me an apprenticeship?" I questioned.

He looked at me as though he had expected me to ask.

"I don't know if one will."

Dread threatened to overtake hope. The aching returned.

"But if you want to be a musician and a composer, I have no doubt you will give them ample reason to fight for your education."

Embarrassed, I bowed my head and smiled at his compliment. He laughed and tightly gripped my shoulder, giving me a hearty shake.

"Come. We have much ground to cover before the dawn breaks," he said with a smile.

I had no choice but to follow.


	31. Train Whistles

Giver31

A train whistle echoed in the distance one night and startled me. I dropped the pile of sticks I was carrying and listened to men shouting in the darkness. Girl, protective of me, growled her warning even though they must have been a mile away.

"Have you ever seen a train?" The Shadow asked.

I gathered my firewood and shook my head.

"You should."

While I built up the fire, he cut up potatoes and carrots. Onions and garlic were sliced and added to a skillet, where he stirred quail into sizzling water. Soon, the smell of supper permeated the air. I sat Indian-style with one arm around Girl and my free hand poking at the embers.

It had been two weeks since we'd caught wild game. Actually, it had only been three days, but the rabbit I'd caught with a snare had been spared at the last minute. Another rabbit, small and curious, emerged from the brush to see what I was doing and I didn't have the heart to kill one in front of the other.

My uncle had hunted the quail. I wondered if he knew what had become of our rabbit feast.

"What do you know of your parents?" my uncle asked suddenly. He stuck his fork through the meat and divided it onto two plates.

My eyes lowered. I knew my father hit harder with his left hand than with his right hand. I knew my mother prayed daily for the devil to stay away from her house. She prayed until her voice went hoarse. I knew they both hated me.

"Nothing," I answered.

"What do you want to know?"

When I glanced up he was staring at me, his eyes keener than they had been as of late. His face was thin, his neck appeared fragile. It seemed for every pound of lean muscle I gained, he withered.

"I've never thought about it," I said at last.

He nodded and blew on his steaming food. "I will tell you honestly if you ask me. I will answer you, though I am biased."

"Me, too," I softly replied.

"And you have every reason to be biased, Erik." He held my gaze. "Never feel guilty. Never."

Again I lowered my eyes and forced a nod. Thirteen years of constant shame would not be undone in one night. What I felt was anchored in the depths of my soul: Ugliness was a sin, and my sins were unforgivable. I blamed myself, as I should have, for ruining their lives.

Yet, still I hated them for the life they'd denied me. My heart ached. As much as I loved my uncle, it still hurt knowing my parents would never care if I lived or died. The people who had granted me life didn't care if it was taken away.

I finally thought of a question, but my uncle spoke first.

"Have you ever tried a walnut?"

My eyes widened in surprise. His unexpected question made me chuckle.

"You laugh?" He grinned at me, looking more alive than he had in weeks. It still surprised me when he faced me and spoke as though I were real, as though I were whole.

"I'm sorry, I—"

"Ah, and another thing, my son. Never apologize for your laughter while in my presence. Swear to me."

I smiled, finding a different kind of freedom I'd never known existed. "I swear."

"Now." He reached behind his back. "About those walnuts."

For the moment my question was forgotten. He held out a walnut and smiled. "Now, open your mouth."

"Wh—why?"

"I want to see if you can catch it."

"In my mouth?"

"Aye, in your mouth." He motioned for me to do as he said and I shifted, which disturbed Girl. She slunk away and rested her head on my pack.

"What if I don't catch it?"

"Then we'll try again."

His first attempt sailed over my head, which prompted Girl to return to my side with the prospect of food being tossed about. Two more attempts plopped into the leaves and the fourth bounced off my front teeth.

"Closer and closer," my uncle mumbled.

"May I try?"

He furrowed his brow. "Of course you may. We'll see if your aim is better than mine." He leaned forward and poured a handful of walnuts into my open palm, which Girl promptly sniffed. I tucked my arm against my chest and shielded them with my hand to keep her from indulging herself.

"Try one," my uncle suggested.

I have no idea what possessed me, but I tossed it up in the air, leaned back, and caught it in my mouth. I toppled over, crunching it between my teeth, and Girl collapsed on me and sniffed around in search of her treat.

"It's good," I said as I sat up and pushed her to my side. Her rump wiggled and she pawed at me. "Girl thinks so too."

My uncle gave a hearty belly laugh. "Indeed."

We talked and ate until dawn, when my uncle suggested we move our camp downhill where a cave would shelter us from the rain. Remnants of a fire and many abandoned camps remained and I found an old belt and a broken comb left in the ash and rubble. No sooner had we moved than the rain fell creating a gray mist over the land. We stood at the very mouth of the long, narrow space and enjoyed the cool breeze.

"Uncle?" I questioned, staring straight ahead.

"Yes, Nephew?"

My gaze dropped and I nervously smiled. "I don't know what to call you," I replied softly. "Uncle Kimmer?"

He put his hand on my shoulder, comforting me in an awkward moment. "You may call me Uncle or Uncle Alak. There is no need for the formality of Kimmer, is there?"

"No." He was my first and only friend. I wanted to treat him as such.

"What is your question, Erik?"

"Was I born…like this?"

He sighed and I held my breath. His grip tightened as though to brace me for his words. "I was not there the night you were born, my child. If I had been, I would have swept you away into the night and raised you as my own."

I looked at him, needing to know if his eyes held true to his words. Goosebumps rose along my arms and the hairs on the back of my neck stood on end. He would have kept me. There had never been more sincere words spoken.

"If memory serves me, it was not until five days after you were born that they said you'd died. They kept the house closed off from visitors and said first that you were stillborn, then that you'd not survived an hour past birth. I once overheard your father say his wife had birthed a baby and it had died nearly a week later, but he never spoke words with much merit to them."

He hadn't answered my question, but I nodded nonetheless and decided to content myself with what I'd learned.

"Erik, I don't know if you were born with scars or if you were injured after your birth, but to your parents I doubt it would have mattered. They are selfish people who never should have been gifted with a child. Whatever they said to you, whatever they did…it was never about you, it was about them. That, above all else, is what you must know."

"But why…?"

"Why what?"

"Why did they…keep me?"

"Your mother was very religious despite marrying an evil man. I know for certain she would not have killed you out of fear for her own soul." His expression softened. "I do not know her reasoning, Erik. Perhaps it was Fate who kept you for me to find."

At last I nodded, truly satisfied with his answer. These days with him lessened the pain I'd experienced all the years of my life. I looked at him and knew if I could spend many more years at his side I would never think of my parents again. There would be no need to consider them when I had a real father. Not a man who had sired me, not an individual who kept me in a cellar, but a true, loving father.

"I'm glad you found me," I said softly.

He wrapped his arms around me in a tight embrace. A sound left his lips, which I often wondered if it was a sob. I didn't know what it was, but the same sound left my mouth as well.

"If only I had found you sooner, my son."

Throughout the day we listened to train whistles and the rainfall, which changed its tune from a light sprinkle to a harsh deluge. I slept but didn't dream, and when I woke I felt refreshed, reborn. I sat up and smiled as I caught sight of the fractured sunlight finding its way through the clouds. The sky was a deep, blushing pink and squirrels chattered outside the cave.

"How would you feel if we took a ride on a train?" my uncle questioned.

"I would like that," I said. My heart beat wildly. For the first time in weeks I was excited again about travel and the possibilities ahead.


	32. Child of Smoke and Fire

Giver32

I woke, shivering and crying, alone in the cave just before dawn. The last jumbled moments of a heart-wrenching nightmare still made my sweaty hands shake as I sat up and untangled reality from the bad dream.

My mother still wept in my thoughts, her fingers splayed and visible beneath the cellar door. She'd become trapped down there in the dark, and I'd desperately attempted to free her, but to no avail. The door was locked and there was no escape. I'd awakened just as my father returned home. In the dark and cold, I had almost thought the time I'd spent with my uncle to be a cruel dream.

Girl licked my clammy face and placed her paw on my shoulder to steady me as she laved my ear. The tickle made me smile, the comfort of a dog was enough to end my tears and release the tension in my neck and shoulders.

Once I was calm I had a new fear to confront: My uncle was not asleep by the dead fire. I was alone with my dog.

My eyes swiftly adjusted to the meager light and I stood to dust off my pants and venture outside. My every movement echoed off the cave walls as though I followed myself in shadows.

Girl swiftly trotted ahead of me and sniffed at the air. Each time she exhaled, her warm breath hung in the air, only to be whisked away by a breeze smelling of rain. Lightning from a distant storm spiked over the trees. We were some twenty feet above ground and able to see quite a distance into the dark gray haze of a dreary morning. The clouds swirled, churning with rain and thunder.

"We won't leave, at least not today," I said as I patted my dog's head.

She merely sighed. I suspected she was hungry and knew a day spent in a cave meant mostly sleeping and thinking about food.

The rain had not yet begun to fall, so I padded outside, pine needles and stones stabbing at my bare feet. The trail curved to the right and disappeared through scraggly trees. To the left was a weathered rock crowded by several tall trees, one of which had become the victim of a storm and lay across another.

My stomach growled something awful and I placed my palm flat over my belly as if I could quiet the disruption. Our packs were empty, our supplies barely included fresh water. I hadn't bathed in several days, so my hair stuck to my head and I could smell dried sweat on my clothing.

I looked at the dog by my side and questioned the integrity of her nose.

While we stood in silence I heard the murmur of voices from the trees and stiffened. I had to relieve myself, I suddenly realized, but couldn't move for fear of being seen. Girl perked up and moved between me and the voices, as though to guard me from possible harm.

"Easy," I whispered.

I much preferred to protect her from harm rather than thrust her before a knife or rifle.

Holding my breath, I listened to the voices but couldn't understand what they said, let alone if they were male or female. My uncle had to be amongst them. Perhaps he'd warded off strangers from sharing our cave. I frowned, wondering if he'd willingly share his space if he was alone or with a traveling companion who would not frighten strangers.

I was just about to turn back to the cave and hope my bladder held out when I heard a single word I did understand.

"Agreed."

It came from my uncle. I had no idea what he'd agreed to, but I stood and waited for him to return.

He seemed surprised to see me waiting for him. "Travelers," he said before I asked. He appeared exhausted, and his voice was not familiar. He sounded hoarse and exhausted, more so than ever before. "Six of them, all brothers and sisters. Two of them are musicians and one of them says she can tell the future, though I do wonder how one can claim to see the future and nearly scream when they are confronted in the wilds. I suppose her clarity does not extend to the present, eh?"

I wasn't quite sure what he meant, but I nodded.

"They will not give us trouble, I assure you. They have food enough to share and we have shelter big enough to accommodate. It's a perfect combination, I think. Don't you?"

Again I nodded. He was a different man, in a familiar body. Even Girl seemed apprehensive.

"Are they gypsies?" I asked, fearful of his reply.

He shook his head. "Hungarians, but not gypsies. Come with me. It's best that you show you are brave and willing to meet with them rather than displaying fear. No one respects a fearful man, Erik."

But that's what I was: Afraid. It was instinct to fear the gasps I knew would accompany a first meeting, to tense as a woman's eyes grew large or a man's face paled. I preferred the company I already had and nothing more. We were family, imperfect but perfect together. These strangers would look down upon us, upon me, with contempt.

"Now, I explained to them that your injuries were the result of a fire, not your birth."

I stared at him. Could I have been injured in a fire, I wondered? It was impossible, but I wanted to believe it. It was easier to accept that I'd been injured after birth rather than carry the burden of imperfect design.

"How old was I when I was burned?"

"Very young. You don't remember the fire or your parents' deaths?"

"They died?" I gasped.

_If only,_ his gaze said to me. "They rushed into their burning home and rescued you from the fire. Gave their lives in exchange for yours."

His words sobered me, and my hopes of a perfect birth were dashed. My parents would have celebrated as I burned in my cradle. He'd told me a fanciful story meant to deceive our guests for the night, not twist my childhood into a romantic tale. I was ashamed of myself for wanting his story to be true.

"They'll never believe it," I mumbled.

"Why not?"

"Because I don't believe it."

He watched me from the corner of his eye, and sighed wearily. "Well, I'll tell them you still harbor a great deal of guilt. It's only natural to feel responsible for their loss."

We walked in silence through the drizzle while Girl trotted behind us and sniffed what I assumed was a rabbit's trail. A horse whinnied closer than expected, and as I searched the trees a girl and a boy, both around my age, appeared through the trees. They were thin-faced, their eyes wide and stark white, the irises pale, almost colorless. The contrast between their eyes and their dirty faces startled me. They were not pristine angels. They were wandering, vagrant children, half-starved and bone weary. In a way, they were like me. Imperfect. Only they were orphaned or abandoned, and I had my uncle.

Swallowing hard, I stepped forward, prepared for my first performance as a child of smoke and fire.


	33. Bound and Alone

Giver33

No one said a damned word to me for the first two hours we made camp inside our cave. The rain poured down so hard that I tugged the donkey into the cave and refused to put her out again. Moon didn't seem pleased with her dark surroundings, but once I shoved a bit of food I'd found earlier into her face, she tolerated the situation.

She seemed to accept her fate better than I did. Each passing moment frustrated me, brought me closer and closer to inevitable anger. Already I felt it burning inside of my heart, charring my insides as everyone went about their business while I sat like a dumb beast. They had no idea that they ignored a musical genius. Later, as they sat and talked amongst themselves, I would show them what they had overlooked: Ugly, grotesque…a mere shell of flesh on the outside that masked the true beauty within. I would show them I was worthy of their attention—and of their praise. I would show them. I would show all of them.

"Don't put your hands in front of the fire for too long," The Shadow warned as I sat with my fingers outstretched, stroking the heat. Gusts of chilled air battled a wall of fiery warmth and failed to brush my flesh. I felt as though I had entered a cocoon of warmth, made untouchable by the fire I had built. "You'll burn the sensitivity from your fingertips."

"I won't," I answered glumly.

"What is it?" he questioned, crouching down beside me. He placed a reassuring hand on my shoulder. "You're very quiet. It's not like you to sit idle for long. Would you care to tell me what troubles you?"

"Nothing," I answered, though I wanted to tell him it was everything.

"I see. You don't want to tell me, is that it?"

I made the mistake of looking past him at the children who were laughing together. A girl around my age caught me staring and immediately looked away. I felt ashamed, but I didn't look away.

"Talk to them," he said.

"Why?" I asked. Why won't they speak to me, I wanted to question. Why must they look past me as if I'm not here? But I knew the answer already.

My uncle forced me to my feet and introduced me to the children around my age, but no one looked in my direction or offered a smile. It was as though I wasn't merely scarred and masked; I was invisible, undeserving of acknowledgement by the total strangers who needed our shelter.

No one cared that my parents had supposedly died in a fire while saving me. No one cared that they'd perished and a child with half a face survived. No one cared if I sat beside the fire and waited for someone to look at me and realize I was human. No one thought of me as human. I wasn't really there.

The situation had worsened. Now they were fully aware of me but they still refused to see me. I could feel them avoid me at all costs, carefully walking around me. The girl poured salt on the floor, a precious commodity lost to her superstition of evil not crossing the line she'd made to protect herself.

I wanted to cry out. The pain of rejection threatened to make me physically ill.

The oldest in their tribe of vagrants pulled my uncle aside and voiced his concerns for their arrangements in the cave. He glanced at his younger sister, his eyes hooded and wary.

"Is the dog tame?" he questioned, eyeing Girl with suspicion.

"She's not my dog," my uncle replied. He looked at me and Girl as we sat together in silence. Her head rested on my knee, her eyes shut and body at ease. I loved her most in those moments of trust when she could sleep with her head on me. It amazed me that an animal, that anything at all in the world, could rest beside me. Deep inside I felt turbulent and uneasy.

The man frowned. "It just follows you?"

"No, not me. I don't think she much cares if I'm around or not." He gestured toward me and smiled. "It's his dog. As I've said, this is my nephew Erik. The dog listens only to him. He has a way with animals, a very unique gift, indeed."

The man didn't glance in my direction. "I think it's best that you tie him up. I worry for my sister's wellbeing while we travel and I would hate for something to happen to her while we share your company."

"Her. It's a she-dog," my uncle corrected. "He calls her Girl, and she's quite gentle, I assure you. I know she's not much to look at, but she's a good dog."

The man paused, but he didn't look at Girl. "We have a bit of spare rope with us." He trained his gaze just above my head. It was then that I realized he wasn't referring to the dog.

I bolted to my feet and Girl growled, startled by my sudden movement. "Don't let him do it," I begged, hurling myself to my uncle's side. "Don't, please don't."

He put his hand on my shoulder. "She's tamed and very well trained," my uncle said firmly. "And I watch over the boy. You've no need to fear."

He remained unconvinced, his arms crossed and his expression like stone. With a grunt, he turned away as though he couldn't bear to look at me a moment longer, although he'd barely looked at me in the first place.

My uncle shifted his weight, clearly uneasy with the situation, but unwilling to resort to a direct confrontation. "We want no trouble. In a day or two we'll be on a train, as long as the weather holds and we're able to travel. Please, for all of our sakes, let's just share the space and the warmth."

"What have you to lose?" the man mumbled.

"Pardon me?"

"I said what do you have to lose?"

"I didn't realize this was competition."

The man stared at him for a moment. Behind him, the rest of his vagrant family members had taken interest in the conversation, their eyes large, expressions filled with anticipation.

I didn't want it to come to this, to raised voices and possible violence. I'd experienced enough in my lifetime and wanted nothing more to do with it. All I wanted was to sit around the fire, play the violin, and pretend I was only a boy. Being pulled from the pack and scrutinized for my shortcomings made me acutely aware that I didn't belong here or anywhere.

"With all due respect—"

There was no respect, at least not for me. I bolted from the cave, heedless of the rain and the cold. All I could think to do was run, run until I could no longer breathe, run until the darkness swallowed me up. Ashamed, angered, bewildered…I couldn't decide what I felt.

Before I had gained much ground, I tripped over a fallen branch and slammed face-first into the ground. The mask covering my scars slipped. Fabric ripped, and hot tears mixed with the cold rain upon my cheeks.

Little by little, I became aware of physical pain. My knees and hands were scraped raw, my face bruised and tender from the impact with rocks and wood. The rain whipped me, tore at my back. It soaked through my clothes and dripped down my sides, down healed wounds I swore I felt opening again. I was nothing but a beaten dog cast out in the rain, an animal no one wanted to look at.

On bloodied knees and scraped hands, I crawled into the darkness, my cries of anguish muffled by the mud caking my teeth and tongue. I wondered if I'd freeze to death or fall off an unseen ledge of rock. I wondered if I could escape the world I hated, the world that hated me.

Teeth clamped down on my pant leg and a low growl followed me. Wolves, I thought. A pack had found me. Without the energy or desire to fight them, I lay still and buried my face in my arms. My only hope was that they killed me swiftly. I didn't care if they dismembered me and fed me to their pups.

The beast sniffed at my legs and up my back until its wet nose pressed to the exposed flesh of my neck. I stiffened, braced myself for the vice of jaws to rip into my spine and tear me apart.

Suddenly, I wasn't at all prepared for a pack of wolves to feast on my carcass. I didn't want anyone or anything to devour me. I feared death, feared what I imagined was an absolute darkness worse than the life I'd known before.

"Get away!" I shouted, springing to my knees, arms flailing around in desperation.

Girl dashed away in surprise, then doubled back and jumped on me, knocking me to the muddy earth once more. She whined and licked at my face and hair, her paws holding me down like a mother dog tending its pup.

In the darkness I grasped hold of her wet fur and buried my face in her warm, wet coat. I wept against her, wishing she hadn't found me, but eternally grateful of her boundless loyalty. She licked my face, my hideous face, and nuzzled me with affection I would never find in human form. I was certain that no matter how long I lived, no one would treat me as she did that night, unafraid of weather or danger. She came and found me.

"I don't want to return," I said stubbornly.

She didn't force me to move. She sat beside me, her head against mine, waiting for my command.

"I want to run away from here," I told her. "I want to go…"

But I had no intended destination, no way of finding a new home. No one would take me in, and I wasn't yet prepared to lie and steal in order to sustain myself. I needed something, someone, and I knew who it was: My uncle, who was alone in the cave with those terrible, wandering fools.

"He needs us," I said.

Girl stood and wagged her rump, thankful that I'd come to my senses. She led me back to the cave where my uncle stood at the mouth and waited for me. He merely looked at me when I slunk back inside, my head bowed.

I thought perhaps this time I would go unnoticed, but gasps followed my arrival. I took my place in the rear of the cave where the shadows remained deep but the air still warmed by the fire. My stomach growled, though I had no desire to near the fire. I wanted nothing more than to be alone with my dog. It was for the best.

"My God," one of them said as I turned away and felt the familiar sting of tears in my eyes. There would be no violin playing, no moment of proving them wrong. Even if I'd wanted to play, my fingers had gone painfully numb from the cold and my hands were stiff and swollen from my fall. Disgraced and disgusting, I held my breath and waited for the urge to sob to finally pass.

In between breaths, the man's words echoed through the cave.

"He's completely mad."


	34. Suffering

Giver34

"Boil water," my uncle instructed, completely ignoring the man's comment. "And you," he said to the little girl, "tear strips of cloth apart and make certain they stay as free of dirt as possible."

They stared at him, blank-faced and wary.

"Have you all gone deaf or are you nothing but ignorant vagrants?"

All of them backed away and instantly busied themselves. Within moments the sound of fabric ripping and pots being rustled in their sack filled the uncomfortable silence.

My uncle said little to me, deciding that actions were stronger than words. He motioned for me to sit, which I did, and to show him my hand. Reluctantly I uncurled my fingers and allowed him to see the deep gash to the meaty part of my hand. I hadn't realized I'd cut myself, yet there was a hole filled with dirt, debris, and my own oozing blood.

"Oh, hell," I said under my breath.

He exhaled disapprovingly and sat back on his haunches. Girl stood nearby, her backside still wagging like a mother pleased to have found her son. I watched her to keep myself from crying, as I still felt the need to break down and sob uncontrollably.

The others, whom I despised, stood at a distance and observed with curiosity and fear. I sensed them drawing further away from my apparent madness, and as much as I wanted to hate them for it, I understood their apprehension. If I'd returned quietly, perhaps with food or wine—although I had no idea where I would have found either—they may have at least looked at me with indifference.

"You'll be fortunate if you ever play again," my uncle said quietly, his voice filled with anger.

There were so few times when he snapped at me that I couldn't help but bow my head in shame. Tears filled my eyes, treacherous emotions of self-deprecation and pity. I inhaled sharply as though it would keep me from breaking down, but my body shook and I knew I'd put myself on display.

"Calm down," he said. He sounded apologetic, mindful of how angry I'd become with myself. "Let me have a better look at it."

I think it began to hurt worse because I was suddenly afraid I'd ruined my only saving grace, my talent for creating music. My eyes closed tightly, sickness welling in my gut as I offered my hand and hoped he wouldn't come to the conclusion that I was now completely worthless.

"Can you feel this?"

White hot fire shot up my arm and I pulled away from him, cursing loudly in pain. It felt as though he'd stuck a hot iron through my hand.

"I suppose you can," he said with a wry smile. "That's a good sign. It means everything is still intact. Trust me, you want to feel pain."

I wanted to tell him I was always in pain, but I couldn't bear to speak. The world suddenly frightened me with acute and hideous dangers. I looked at him, saw how thin and fragile he'd become. It would be unlikely that I could survive one night alone, one night without him. If he died, so would I. Strangely I felt no sense of fear, merely the impatience of getting it over with as quickly as possible.

Cold settled in and I began to tremble. I stared down at my clothes and noticed the dozens of paw prints where Girl had stood over me and forced me to submit to her careful tending. Half-aware of my surroundings, I wondered what it would be like to have a human mother embrace me. The thought—or perhaps the cold—made me dazed with wonder. It was a beautiful and sickening fantasy, one I wanted and didn't want. I thought about how it would feel to have a mother run her fingers through my hair and kiss my temple, what it would feel like to merely sit with another and listen to their heart beat. It couldn't have been as wonderful as the nights I'd slept with my head on Girl's chest and listened to her breathe. It couldn't possibly be as comfortable as the mornings I woke to her kissing my hands and nudging me to play with her.

But I would never know. I decided it didn't matter what it felt like, and that made me angry.

"Here," the oldest of their clan said as he held out a kettle of steaming water. He'd come within ten feet of where I sat and then paused, unwilling to come near me.

"I can't reach it from there," my uncle said.

"Then I'll leave it for you."

"Bring it to me," he said gruffly. "And for god's sake, if you're old enough to be a man then act as one. What in the hell are you afraid of? A boy? My God, he's not even fifteen years of age and what are you? Twenty?"

"Nineteen," he corrected.

My uncle grunted. "An adolescent would hide from the sight of blood," he said, though it was perfectly clear that blood wasn't the cause for his fear.

To the accusations the man stiffened and stepped forward, his hardened eyes set on me as though I was about to challenge him. I looked away as he stood over me, afraid he'd speak directly to me when I had no desire to speak to him.

"Here," the man said.

My uncle looked up. "Where are the strips of cloth?"

The man looked as though he'd reply harshly, but instead he turned and walked to his sister, who stood looking as though she'd burst into tears. Well fed, dry, and without a gash in her hand, I didn't think she had the right to sob. Ignorant little toad, I wanted to say to her. Selfish little beast crying over nothing.

Unexpectedly she smiled at her brother. "I don't know if I did it correctly," she murmured.

"I'm sure you did fine, Lucia."

Her brother returned to my uncle's side and offered the strips of cloth. "I trust you have a needle and thread," he said blandly.

My uncle nodded. "I do," he answered. "But I don't have a steady hand to sew it up."

The man's lips parted as though he would protest, but my uncle didn't give him enough time to put up an argument.

"Which one of your sisters is good with sewing? Instruct her to come here and see to this. I'll clean it myself while you select the best one for the duty."

He was either so appalled or taken aback that he didn't offer any argument. Instead he turned and walked away, defeated by my uncle's assertive nature.

"They won't do it," I said once the man was at a safe distance from us.

"They will, or they'll leave at once," he replied.

How he could be certain was beyond me, but I nodded and attempted to smile. I found myself envious of his ability to say something and have it done. Such power in his words, despite his frail appearance. What a blessing he had with his booming voice. He had a gift like no other.

"You're fortunate you didn't hurt yourself much worse than this," he said, glancing at my face. "What would you have done if you'd broken your leg?"

I didn't reply. He already knew I was angry, which obviously meant I was unprepared to think of the consequences.

"Did you think I would allow them to harm you?" he asked, making no attempt to keep his voice hushed. When I didn't answer, he put his hand against my chin and forced me to meet his eye. He repeated his question.

My throat closed, but I managed to shake my head. We were outnumbered, I wanted to say. What chance did we stand if they attacked us? Instead I allowed my chin to touch my chest and a painful, hard lump of emotion to settle in my chest. No, I didn't think he'd allow them to harm me, but I didn't know how we'd protect ourselves for long.

"Never run, Erik," he said. "Never allow others to intimidate you."

He asked for the impossible, but I nodded and began to fidget. My hand had swelled, the pain becoming increasingly intense.

"Let's get you cleaned up and then you'll be able to rest a while. Sleep will make you feel better, don't you think?"

I nodded. "I hope so."

He ruffled my hair. "It won't hurt forever."

I was certain I had hurt every day of my life and would do so until death. For the first time on our travels, I found it impossible to believe him.


	35. The Wolf Within

Giver35

Whispers echoed through the cave and roused me from sleep, and immediately I felt every bone in my body stiffen, ready for an attack.

"Quiet," my uncle said.

My eyes met his in the meager light and I nodded once, afraid to move or breathe and alert them.

"They're leaving," he said, his voice low and calm.

Girl, who I hadn't realized had curled up behind me, lifted her head and settled it onto my side. She exhaled hard and groaned, but lay still against me. I was thankful for her company.

Slowly pain returned to my skinned knees and damaged hand and for a fleeting moment I thought of how my uncle had lied to me, knowing that it wouldn't always hurt. Every nerve in my body knew lingering pain, every memory in my head familiar with both physical and mental torment. The young girl sent to sew up my injured hand had scalded herself with boiling water once she finished, preferring pain and blisters to my flesh against hers. Humiliation knifed through me and the tears I refused to shed poisoned me within.

I hated what I was on the outside and feared what I felt inside. Thoughts rattled through me, unbidden and dark, evil. I wanted them to die—and I had a desire to kill them. They deserved it, I reasoned, an eye for a miserable, cruel eye.

I watched the shadows play along the walls and listened to the people who had decided to flee in the night. They had been forced near me by my uncle's demands I had seen the terror and trepidation in their gazes, the way they looked at me as though I were a wolf in shadows.

A wolf, I imagined, would have prided itself on creating such intense fear. Perhaps I was not a wolf at all—or I had not yet found my true soul as a predator. My canine companion evidently shared my sentiment and released a growl, which forced my eyes up. Several feet away, a man stood and glowered at me.

Like the animal I longed to become , I bared my teeth and heard him grunt in response.

"He sleeps with a bitch," he said under his breath as he shook his head. "An ignorant, disgusting bitch at that."

His words knifed through me. I tensed, feeling something I had rarely ever felt before: the need to protest, to defend myself. If I was a beast, then I sure as hell would live up to my unbidden reputation.

"Damn it," my uncle mumbled. He rolled onto his side and sat up before I could move, and the swiftness of his actions gave me pause. "There is nothing that binds you to us," he said. "Leave at once if you cannot bear to be in his presence."

The man regarded us from a safe distance and inhaled sharply. "There are a great deal more of us than there are of you," he said smoothly.

My heart raced as my fears slowly became reality. They would not leave in peace and I had a feeling we would not depart easily either. I sat up, following my uncle's lead, and put a protective hand on Girl, who had started to growl. The sound rumbled through her as a warning to the rest and the man standing closest to us took a step back.

"Control your dog," he ordered.

"Which beast do you fear?" I asked.

The words came unbidden, but I refused to back down. If I were to be a monster, I would play the part both inside and out. Far too long I had sat idle, sat waiting and alone. Far too many nights I had been humiliated, shunned and powerless. Years had passed and I had no control over how others viewed me, but the opportunity had eluded me.

Until now.

I wanted to growl at him, wished I could turn into an animal with fur raised down my spine and a snarl exposing canines. I wished I could stalk this man, back him into a corner and rip out his throat. More than anything, I despised being only partially human. This was a setback to what I could have been, if God had made his monster correctly.

The man wrinkled his nose. "You are an odd, unsound child," he said with a humorless laugh.

Girl crouched lower, her growl rumbling louder, barely controlled. Fear crept into the man's gaze as he eyed her and his trepidation amused me.

"You fear the wrong beast," I said as I stood and started toward him.

"Damn it, Erik," my uncle hissed. He somehow managed to stand and step in front of me, cutting off my path to what very well could have been my own suicide. He threw out his arm and clubbed me in the chest, the blow jarring me. It didn't hurt, as he hadn't hit me hard, but it startled me greatly and I reacted at once.

My eyes never left the man who had challenged me, and for a moment I failed to realize I had allowed my reflexes to trump my sense. It wasn't until someone in the shadows gasped that I realized I had knocked my uncle to the ground.

I stared down at wide, uncertain eyes. His expression was unreadable and it took a moment for it to register. I looked from him to the man who had backed away, rejoining his family. They stared at me for a long moment in silence as I stood before them with my chest heaving and conflict boiled within me. I looked them over one by one, saw the hesitation in their eyes and in their movements as they swiftly gathered their belongings and shuffled away.

And then I heard his harsh breath and a groan as my uncle knelt before me, his strength diminished, his face drawn and haggard. Gone was the strength I had craved to find within him. He stared at me for a long moment before he finally bowed his head and refused to look at me.

Once my heart rate slowed, I offered my hand to him, but he refused. He sighed and shook his head.

"You are stronger than you look," he said. "Alarmingly so, Erik. You must be careful."

The others milled from the cave, their packs slung over their shoulders and consternation in their wary gazes as they studied me. I wondered if they thought I would follow them, stalk them like a predator in the night. Their retreat gave me a deep sense of satisfaction I had never known before and I smiled inwardly. There was something inside of me I had never known existed, something I would never forget.

"Erik," my uncle said sharply. "You will get yourself killed, do you hear me?"

He had risen to his feet, but his shoulders remained hunched. His face was ashen, his stance guarded and for one fleeting moment, I wanted to beg for his forgiveness and tell him I was sorry for my outburst. In the next breath, I refused to back down, refused to be beaten again. Never again, I thought to myself. I would fall on my knees for no one.

"You," I said, glaring at him. "You are fortunate they didn't slit our throats in the night."

My wolfish nature seeped through as I challenged him. We stared at one another, two males grappling for the same title. I had no idea why I wished to challenge him, save for I was a boy on the verge of manhood, but I refused to back down.

"They made no such attempt," he said smoothly. "But you gave them reason to fear."

"Good," I said.

"Is this what you want?" he asked. "Is this what you crave? To be the beast of nightmares?"

My eyes never left his, and I smiled widely, my chest heaving, blood thrumming through my ears with deafening satisfaction. I had been given so little in life, and yet I felt as though suddenly I had received more than I had ever known. This was the wolf shedding its sheep's clothing. I was no lamb; I was indeed the vicious lupine laying in wait.

"Perhaps this is my true self," I said.

His face darkened. "For your sake I hope it is not."

"My sake?" I questioned.

"You don't even see it," he said under his breath.

I stepped toward him, my movements quick and purposeful. "I have seen enough," I said through my teeth.

He shook his head. "Tonight, my son, you have been blinded," he corrected.

My anger boiled within me, but he walked away. I started to follow him, but paused and looked around the empty cave. The fire had died down to almost nothing, the orange glow dancing along the dark, suffocating walls. I searched the emptiness, heard the echoes of footsteps in the distance and my own harsh, angry breaths.

I blinked several times before realization set in. Anger turned to desolation and I sank to my knees and examined my injured hand, which didn't bother me nearly as much as my aching heart.

Once again I was alone and I understood what my uncle had meant. I had been blinded my anger and now I suffered the consequences. Perhaps it should have made me take a step away from myself, but like I coward I stepped inward and embraced the wolf, the beast waiting for me.

So be it, I thought. I would survive on my own. Soon enough I would have to and as an ignorant youth I had no qualms about starting at once.


	36. Death Blow

Giver36

I watched the sunrise from where I sat, my belly empty, my eyes heavy and misery bearing down on me. My uncle made no attempt at conversation and neither did I, as I was too stubborn and filled with undue pride.

"Wait here," he instructed as he strolled up behind me.

I glanced at him from the corner of my eye, then down at the train station nestled on the north side of the town we had spent the night overlooking. Moon was off grazing and Girl had wandered off to chase rabbits, which left me completely alone.

"Why?" I asked.

Rage threatened, and as I searched his face for answers I knew what he would say: I was not fit for gentle company. Unless I was leashed or cages, I would not be allowed in society.

He came to me then, his eyes gentle and apologetic. He settled his heavy, gnarled hand on my shoulder and looked me in the face.

"Your thoughts are clear in your eyes," he said sadly.

But I didn't want his pity. I had tired of his condescending ways. I turned away from him and felt the familiar surge of childish emotion, one I could never extinguish.

"You know nothing of me." I spit out my words, though my voice trembled and I hated myself for showing such weakness.

He sighed, and although I wanted desperately to apologize, I wrenched my head to the side and refused to look at him.

"My son, I know enough of you," he said quietly. "Enough to know—"

His words were cut short by someone shouting. We both sprang to our feet and at last I looked to him for guidance. Foolishly I looked to him too late, and yet he never rejected me.

"Hide," he said. "Until I call for you upon my return." He stood to his full height and smiled. "Today we take the train."

I nodded and disappeared while he strolled away. When I looked back from my chosen hiding place, he was gone and I frowned, tears flooding my eyes. I sobbed quietly, face buried in my folded arms as I lay belly down in pine needles and dirt.

My fear of losing him overpowered me and I felt as though I were about to suffocate. The tightness in my throat brought about the onset of panic and I gasped for a breath. I wanted him to trust me, not discard me and head into town alone. I wanted him to have me at his side proudly, not hidden and waiting for his return. Most of all I wanted the strength to apologize to him for my ignorance and for my temper and to ask him to quell the anger I no longer wished to stoke.

My attention was drawn from my misery to the two men who slowly picked their way toward my hiding place. They weren't much older than me from what I could tell, both lean and tall.

"Well, I don't see a soul around," one man said to the other.

With a shrug, the second man planted his hands on his hips. "Look for a body," he suggested. "Perhaps sickness has claimed them."

"I haven't anything to burn the corpses," the first man said.

I swallowed hard but remained motionless, afraid the slightest move would draw their attention to me. Having been caught once by unfamiliar men, a swell of fear took over and I felt myself on the verge of losing consciousness.

"Look here," one of them said. "They did nothing to hide their tracks."

The followed my footprints, but after a few minutes seemed disinterested as I had done nothing but pace back and forth and double around.

The other man grunted. "Well, what do you expect from a sickly child and a dying man?"

I clenched my jaw and looked away, knowing there was nothing I could do, especially alone. As long as I remained quiet they could pass me unnoticed and then I would seek a higher vantage point and watch them, guard my temporary domain.

"Their gone," one man said with a hard exhale. "We should burn the ground less disease spreads."

The other one shook his head. "Are you mad? The wind is too strong; we'd burn the whole damned hill and then some." He lifted a bottle from his jacket and shook it. "But we could spent the better part of the morning _looking_ for them," he said with a wink.

"Give it here," the other demanded. "We should look together."

They both laughed and I sunk lower, knowing it could very well be hours before they bothered to stumble back to wherever they had come from. I inhaled and swore I could smell their stench from where I crouched. With nothing else to do, I adjusted my position in the pine needles and dirt and prepared to wait it out. I was no stranger to long stretches of time spent in solitude and found little difference between waiting for my father to retrieve me and avoiding two brutal, drunken strangers searching for me.

Unlike my father, however, I had two strangers to contend with—or so I thought.

At first, I didn't realize what was happening until my body scraped across the ground. With my breath stolen from my lungs, I clawed at the dirt, but it didn't stop me from being dragged by my feet. Terror split through me and I yelped in surprise, which drew a laugh from my captor.

"Found him," the man said as he tossed me as though I were insignificant in size and my body rattled against a tree.

The two men who had sat to drink the morning away abruptly stood and stalked toward me. The look of surprise in their gazes slowly turned to satisfaction and they smiled at one another.

"What plagues you?" one of them asked.

I refused to answer, as my tongue had turned into a useless lump between my teeth.

They stared at me, but none dared to come closer. A glance over my shoulder showed the biggest of the three—the one who had pulled me out from hiding—wore leather gloves, which he stared at as though he expected to find disease seeping through the barrier and onto his hands.

I rolled onto my stomach and squirmed, pretending I had been punched in the gut. If I had taken nothing away from my father's cruelty, it was how to react to intense pain and I knew I could use it to my advantage. If I had no other means of escape, I hoped by faking illness, they would turn and flee, leaving me in hiding.

Consternation filled their gazes and I knew my plan could buy me precious time. I allowed my body to stretch out and I extended my bandaged hand, and the two men watching me stepped back, their mouths agape.

They look terrified and I relished in their fears as I inched closer.

"Help," I whispered, playing their fears for all it was worth.

They looked like frightened horses ready to bolt, so I continued my rouse until I heard the third man rustling behind me. From the corner of my eye I saw him bend and at once I knew my foolishness would come to a halt.

I never knew exactly what he hit me with, but judging by how my head throbbed and the split in my scalp, I suspected it was a tree branch and not a rock. The blow was enough to stun me like a cow lead to slaughter and I froze, struggling to keep my wits about me even though I knew damn well I was on the verge of blacking out. It was a familiar, almost welcome sensation that staunched the flow of pain radiating from my skull.

The man hit me again, this time in the middle of the back, and I bit so hard on my lower lip I tasted my own blood.

The world dimmed, their voices distant, and I remember as I faded into darkness thinking I had come to the end of my miserable existence and hoped God would be kinder to me in the next life.


	37. A Different Midas

This might be a little disturbing (animal violence), but Kire is a very dark, troubled, yet redeemable Phantom. For all of his faults and anger, I keep going back to what makes him more human than a monster. I would love to hear your reviews!

Giver37

It was dark and tepid when I woke, the sunlight fractured as it cut through the trees swaying above me. My eyes refused to focus, but I sighed at the feel of the cool, damp ground beneath me, which seemed to ease my throbbing skull. The soil had been freshly turned, the scent heady and somewhat pleasant.

I didn't want to think, to even breathe. I wanted to close my eyes and feel darkness unfurl around me, but my head felt as though it had split in two. With a muffled groan I felt gingerly at my scalp and winced at the warm, sticky substance coating my hair and the nape of my neck. I vaguely remembered being struck, though it seemed distant, like the aftermath of a nightmare.

Nauseated, I pinched my eyes closed and took several shallow breaths, panting as I waited for the sickness to pass. Once I felt as though I could move, I tightened my stomach and attempted to sit upright.

"It's awake," I heard a man whisper.

I paused even though I knew they watched me as I struggled to right myself. As my eyes finally adjusted, I realized I sat in the middle of a narrow yet fairly deep hole.

A grave.

I inhaled sharply and wobbled to my feet before they began burying me alive. With trembling hands I grasped at the roots and attempted to find purchase in the dirt walls until I came away with little more than dirt beneath my nails and the soles of my feet.

A man grunted and eyed me from his vantage point. "Awake and rather angry." He took a swig from a brown glass bottle and belched. "You there, what plagues you?" he asked.

Immediately I looked away and pressed my hand to my face, grateful they hadn't removed my mask. I suspected they dragged me to this dark, cold grave and tossed me inside. Perhaps they hadn't bothered to look at me.

"He is dumb," I heard another man shout. "He cannot speak."

The man standing over me shook his head and I glared up at him. Despite the feeling in my gut, the absolute betrayal I felt brewing not only with my insides but also my wits, I made another attempt to free myself from the grave, but I stumbled backward and collapsed with a heavy thud. The world spun around me and I grunted.

"He is determined, I'll give him that." The man peering down at me shook his head and spit something black out of his mouth, which landed with a splatter across from me.

My jaw clenched and I forced myself to stand. No matter how many times I was knocked over, I would make every attempt to stand again.

"Let me out or I'll kill you," I said through my teeth.

My threat was greeted by laughter, which only furthered my anger. Like a helpless creature I continued to jump and claw at the dirt, falling repeatedly until the man who had stood watch shook his head.

"Conserve your energy," he suggested.

I eyed him with wariness and heard shouting in the distance, which only made me more determined to free myself. Just as I began reaching for the roots much to high above my head, I heard a single gunshot followed by a yelp, which turned into an animal crying out in pain.

The sound paralyzed me. Wide-eyed and lips parted, I gawked up at the man who had turned away from me. The injured creature continued to screech, a high-pitched, blood-chilling cry of agony. Before I could question, the man walked away and I stepped back, searching for answers.

"What is that?" I yelled.

No one answered, though it sounded as though there was a great deal of commotion. I pressed my back to the cool, dirt wall and was instantly reminded of how I had ended up in the grave.

The animal continued to protest, the sound becoming incredibly close and more concerning. Gooseflesh rose along my arms as I wondered what was injured.

"Toss her in," someone shouted.

A shapeless mass dropped with a heavy thud at my feet and I blinked, unable to comprehend what had happened. A crimson lump of fur writhed at my feet, its teeth bared and its eyes wild, a rope tied tight around its neck.

"My God," I whispered.

I collapsed beside Girl and attempted to gather her blood-soaked body in my arms. I struggled to untie the rope strangling her and managed to loosen it enough for her to breathe. Blood and dirt coated her side and I knew what they had done: they had dragged her toward the hole where I had been left for dead.

Tears gathered in my eyes, blinding me from her dying form. She snapped at the air, and at the time I thought she had turned on me. It never deterred my persistence, no matter how she drove me away, I would not leave her side.

She had never abandoned me, and her loyalty reverberated through me.

"Stop," I begged. "Please, stop."

She bit me in the arm, and it was only when I cried out that she settled and whined, apparently more concerned for her lost puppy than her own dying self. She licked my face, her hot breaths on my cheek, her body trembling. I tried to hold her, but she was slick with blood pouring from her chest. It was not a wound meant to kill, though I was too young to know it at the time. Whoever had shot her had done so for pain and suffering.

Her heavy breaths turned to gurgled whimpers and I clutched her as tight as I could, willing her to fight a battle she couldn't win.

"What did I tell you? That's his mangy dog," I heard someone say with a humorless chuckle. "The bitch is as ugly as the boy."

Eyes pinched closed, I ignored their voices and the last dying cries of the animal in my arms. I pressed my lips to her maimed ears and sang softly to her, a jumble of words that were so incoherent I didn't understand them myself. All that mattered was she heard me and knew I was beside her. It was as much as I could offer.

For several seconds she fought against me, her legs kicking wildly in one final protest of death. Long after she stilled, I held her in my arms, this animal I had hoped to save, this creature I had damned to hell merely by allowing her to follow behind me.

It was then, as I sat on my knees, I understood mine was the touch of Midas. Rather than gold, however, my touch brought death and suffering, and Girl was my first victim.

I shivered, soaked in my dog's blood and my own tears. Rage engulfed me as I heard men in the distance laughing. No one stood over me, no one watched to see what I was doing in the bottom of the hole. Without a sound I stood, wiped as much blood and dirt as I could, and made a running start toward the dirt wall. By the sheer grace of God I managed to find purchase on the same tree root I had attempted to grasp in vain.

For a moment I dangled, afraid I would lose my hold and collapse once more, but I refused to be ignored. For far too long I had gone unnoticed. The bite to my arm was of no consequence; it merely reminded me of the life I fought to avenge.

I would kill them, every last one of them. I had no concern for myself, absolutely no remorse for my own undoing. With each frantic move, I heard Girl scream in pain, heard her last labored breaths as she died.

They would pay for their actions—and I would deliver as many men to hell as I could before they murdered me.

Nothing else mattered, save revenge.


	38. A Dying Man

I promise to lighten up on Young Kire after this chapter.

Giver38

I often wondered what the small band of men saw when I pulled myself from the grave. There I stood; a filthy, blood-covered boy in tattered clothes with a mask shielding his face. I imagined it was as though I had risen from the dead, a corpse drenched in red, teeth bared like a blood thirsty wolf. They had assumed I was ill, yet they had created this incurable sickness, this need for revenge.

No one reacted when I climbed to my feet and stared at them. I wanted to stalk after them, sending them running in terror for their lives as the beast advanced, ready and more than willing to rip into their flesh.

One man sat eating an apple, another squatted beneath a tree and picked dirt from beneath his fingernails. They both paused, but neither seemed gravely concerned with my presence.

"Who killed her?" I demanded, almost beside myself in anger. They sat in silence, so I tried again. "Who killed my dog?"

My voice shook with rage, and when none dared to answer, I barreled toward the closest man and began clubbing him with my tightly closed fists. In a fit of pure loathing, I snarled as I pummeled him with as much force as I could muster. My stomach flipped, my mind still clouded, but with indiscernible grunts and growls, I sought my revenge, certain someone would lose their life at my hands. With every ounce of fury, I summoned the wolf within, the terrifying lupine commanding their respect and demanding they submit.

Revenge, however, would not be pursued easily. The man, who was taller, stronger, and in better health, pushed me away. Teeth gritted, I reeled back and lost my footing, but refused to stay down.

"Did you kill her?" I bellowed.

My outburst gained the attention I craved, the audience I wanted for my bloodletting. The rest of the men gathered around, their interest piqued by the wild beast of a child putting up a fight.

"Fight me," I said between harsh breaths. "Fight me to the death."

The man shook his head. He waited until I lunged for him, then grabbed me by the hair and drove me into the ground with such unforgiving force, I felt like a stunned cow awaiting slaughter.

The salty taste of blood filled my mouth and I realized I had bitten the tip of my tongue. I spit into the dirt, and the circle of onlookers chuckled.

"He has a swing or two left in him," I heard someone say. "Ignorant bastard."

I forced myself to stand, but the world around me rotated, shifted as though I were merely silt in the bottom of a bottle. With each labored breath, I felt cold and clammy, the world narrowing, the sound of laughter dimming.

My knees gave out and I fell to the dirt. A man grabbed me by the shirt and hauled me backwards and I knew what would happen; I only hoped I would pass out before I was thrown into the grave. Desperately I clawed at the black earth, attempting to hold onto something, anything at all. It seemed there was nothing left to grasp.

"Uncle," I pleaded with the last breath left in my lungs. I could barely hear myself over the raucous laughter and taunts, though it seemed like a fitting last word to utter.

The man pulling me across the ground flipped me onto my back and knelt hard on my chest. Oxygen left my lungs, forced out by the pressure on my strained ribs. My eyes watered and I gasped like a fish pulled from a pond, wide-eyed and desperate.

"Let's see what he looks like beneath this mask," he said.

The crowd cheered. I coughed, my legs writhing, hands pushing at him but I was seconds from blacking out completely. I remembered looking him in the eye and seeing how he enjoyed putting me in my miserable place, how he savored each bit of the fight I still put up.

Cold, cruel, brown eyes creased with laughter as he reached out, pulled my head as far back as it would go, and ripped the mask from my face.

I never knew if I lost consciousness or if my mind had ceased to function. I had no recollection of what followed, though the nightmare played many times in my mind, always ending with him reaching toward me.

The only part I remembered came after; when I felt the cool rush of air against my cheeks and saw the man clutching his bloodied hand. My best assumption was I had bitten him, though the taste of blood in my mouth could have very well been from my own tongue.

He kicked me once in the stomach before chaos ensued. I heard a gunshot, then another, then men frantically scattering. With the last of my strength I attempted to drag myself to safety, but another man grabbed me by the shoulders and forced me onto my stomach.

"Lay still," he ordered.

I had no choice. Tears streamed down my face, my lungs so exhausted that I couldn't muster a sound. Numbness refused to take hold and I felt consumed by a pounding heartache and unbearable pain. Nothing had ever hurt so badly on the inside, and as I lay there trembling, I felt miserable in my failure.

When the noise died down, the man who had pinned me to the ground eased his grip and allowed me to turn over. Dirt gritted in my eyes and irritated my nostrils. I wiped my face with the back of my hand and shuddered, afraid of who or what now held me captive. I could still smell the gunpowder in the air and hear men shouting as they ran.

"Here," the man said. "My son."

I didn't have to meet his eye to know who had stood over me. I reached out a trembling hand and felt the soft fabric against my fingertips as my uncle allowed me my mask once more.

My mind was too unraveled for words. I moaned softly, wanting to ask how he had managed to make his way through the crowd, how he had saved me. I wanted to know how long they stared and what they said in the moments erased from my memory, though I knew he would never tell me.

"Is this your blood?" he asked, his voice filled with fear. He leaned onto his cane and eyed me with grave concern.

I shook my head and covered my face with my hands.

"They were cowards," he said to me. "There is no honor in harming women or children. Only a man lacking all character would do such a thing."

I nodded, absorbing his words. I felt weak and unsure of myself, but I refused to ever be a coward.

The sky had clouded over, the air turned cooler than before. I sat motionless, afraid to move or speak, afraid to invite further pain. I hoped if I sat perfectly still, my uncle would rouse me from this nightmare. All I wanted was to find Girl pressed up against me and my uncle shaking his head, wondering how I could sleep beside a filthy dog.

"Erik," he said at last. He dropped something heavy at his feet and I glanced down, seeing a pistol. Blood splattered in the dirt and I guessed he'd fought someone for it.

I turned my face away, overwhelmed by the commotion, which did nothing to lessen my loss. "They killed her," I whispered.

He said nothing for a long moment. "I heard the gunshot." He sighed. "And a dog cry. I feared they'd shot you as well." He paused for a long moment. "You're fortunate, my boy. There were a lot of drunken, lazy men napping and milling about. They didn't notice an old man with a cane."

My bottom lip trembled. I thought back to the dog my father had killed, how it had made one last cry before it struggled soundlessly, it's throat slit wide open as though it were a puppet. Girl's agony had been intensified. When I closed my eyes, I saw her face, her white teeth and dark gaze filled with panic. Hers had not been a merciful death.

"I loved her," I sobbed.

He placed his hand on my shoulder. "I know you did," he said. "And she gave her life to protect you."

"No, she didn't. She was nowhere near me," I argued. "They killed her because she was there. They killed her because I brought her with me."

"Erik…"

I had no desire to be consoled. I wanted this misery as my own, and indeed I felt I deserved it, even craved its company.

He sighed. "They knew she would come for you," he said. "There would have been no stopping her."

"They shot her," I said blankly. "They stopped her."

I heard him step away from me, and when I looked to see where he was going, I saw him pause by the grave. He crossed his arms and shook his head.

"I'll bury her," he offered.

"No."

"Erik, for God's sake, you cannot stand."

With that, I took a deep breath and slowly climbed to my feet. I blinked several times and sucked in wild breaths, which kept my focus. Cold sweat trickled down my brow, but I said nothing, afraid my wits would abandon me.

"I can stand," I replied once I took my first step. "I can do it myself."

My uncle frowned but said nothing more. He picked up two shovels that had been left behind and handed me one.

We moved the earth in silence, both of us working on opposite ends. The grave was narrower than I had originally thought and now that I saw it from above the ground, it looked more like a holding pen or trap for a wild boar.

I hated leaving her there, in that place above a train station and insignificant town. I hated that she had come for me when she should have run off. I hated that she had survived the first few days, that ugly damned, beaten up dog with her chewed off ears and body littered in scars. I hated that she trusted me, and in the end I had given her nothing but pain and death.

My uncle sat to rest and suggested I do the same, but I refused to stop. My hands ached, blistered, and bled as I placed the last of the dirt onto the grave and looked for a stone to give her a marker.

"It's enough," my uncle said. "She's at rest."

I stormed away from him, gritted my teeth, and hefted the largest rock I could carry back to the newly turned earth. The sun had started to fade and the majority of the day had been spent burying my dog. I dropped the stone and fell to my knees, wondering if peace would ever outweigh the sting of grief. It felt as though my chest would implode, though I didn't care. If the emptiness consumed me, then eventually I would stop hurting.

My uncle put his arm over my shoulder and exhaled as he drew me closer. The strength of his embrace had faded, though I wasn't sure if it was because I wasn't ready to accept it or if he had realized I would crumble beneath him if he pressed too hard.

"Your heart," he said. "It's deeper than the ocean, Erik, and that insatiable depth is difficult to bear."

I made no reply, feeling as though nothing would ever fill me, aside from anger.

"You were not the one who killed her," he assured me.

"I was not the one to save her, either." My voice had turned tight, each word refusing to come out. I finished with a sob and shuddered. All of my life I had known pain, yet this ache curled tightly within me, so horribly acute and raw—and there was no end in sight.

"We need to leave at once," he said. "It's not safe here."

"We can't," I blurted out. "Not without Moon."

"Moon is safely tied to a tree," he said. "But I'm afraid she has reached the end of her travels with us."

My eyes widened in horror. "You can't leave her bound to a tree! She will starve to death!"

He shook his head. "No, no, my son, I meant she will find a home here," he said gently. "There's no place to stow her on a train."

My mind reeled as I thought of losing her as well.

"No," I said firmly. "No, I won't leave her."

His shoulder's dropped. "Erik, this is not a decision to make lightly."

It hadn't been made lightly, I wanted to tell him, and there was no choice. Girl had died because of me and now he wanted me to abandon Moon. Aside from my Uncle, these were the only two souls in the world I had cared for and that had given me affection. They were not mere animals, they were my family, my tribe.

I wouldn't do it. I would stay and die beside her—and I said as much in my fit of desperation.

"She's a beast of burden," he said, growing irritated with me.

"I am a beast." I pointed at my masked face. "If she is not allowed on the train, then neither am I."

"I sympathize with you, my boy, and I know you were fond of both these creatures, but we must keep moving," he said, his tone stern.

"Why?" I challenged. "Why do we need to leave now? Without her?"

He pressed his fingers to his forehead as though I had given him a terrible headache. "You already know the answer," he said softly.

I shook my head. "You never wanted either of them," I said, frantic to prove my point. "Never."

"I'm dying, Erik," he said in a tone lacking anger.

His words were spoken so plainly that at first it didn't quite register. I attempted to convince myself this wasn't true, that I had been blind to his condition, though now that he had said it aloud, there was no turning back or denying.

Still, I shook my head, making one final, vain attempt to deny the truth. When he didn't speak, I turned and walked toward him. He had become so frail, so emaciated and weak. I had no idea how he had managed to help me bury Girl or how he kept his strength. Years later when I thought of him, I knew he had done it only for me, for the ignorant, wretched, foolish child he had rescued from a cellar. I felt a great deal of guilt and shame for my inability to respect him as he respected and loved me. If he had lived to see my life, I had no doubt he would have been gravely disappointed with my occupations.

In that moment, however, I was devastated. When he put his arms around me and lifted the mask from my face, I bawled harder than I ever had or ever would in my lifetime. I rested my forehead against his shoulder and wanted nothing more than his guidance. Long before he took his last breath, I mourned him, this temporary father.

He said nothing to me and I made no attempt to speak. There were no words that fit, only heartache whispered through tears.

"There is not much time, my son," he said in my ear. "But what time there is, I give to you."

The depth of my heart would run dry.


	39. Like No One Else

Giver39

In silence I gathered my belongings and stood with my head bowed, unable to face Moon.

No one would treat her as I had over the weeks we had traveled together. Instead of a name, she would be known as only an ignorant beast of burden. She would be worked hard, beaten, and most likely slaughtered when she was no longer of use. No one would brush out her coat or pull twigs and stickers from her mane and tail as I had done. She would be reduced to an animal when I had viewed her as part of my family.

My uncle gave a heavy sigh and clicked his tongue along the roof of his mouth, but I didn't acknowledge him. My feet were leaden, my heart heavy as I stood within fifty yards of Girl's burial site.

"She won't move for me." He sighed again as though aggravated. When I looked at him, he shook his head and chuckled. "She will listen to no one, aside from you."

"I know," I answered softly.

My heart ached for her and the life she would live, constantly beaten until she finally did as she was asked. In my mind, her fate mirrored my past.

He looked me over and tapped his fingers against his hip. "Perhaps she is in mourning as well," he suggested.

She was stubborn, which is what I suspected drew her to me in the first place. We had a kinship as I was loath to listen and she was loath to follow directions unless it involved food. She had head-butted me more times in the spine than I could count and enjoyed removing apples from my hand if I turned my back on her. Now I was expected to turn away from Moon completely and leave her to her fate. I knew what that felt like to be disregarded—and I hated it.

"You were correct," my uncle mused. "We cannot leave her behind."

I looked up at him suddenly, my mouth agape and heart pounding in relief. "She can travel with us on the train?" I gasped. In my mind I pictured a bench large enough to accompany a donkey.

He shook his head. "We walk."

My joy of keeping Moon was overshadowed by my uncle's frail condition. "But—" I started.

"I know," he answered before I could finish. He offered a smile. "We will find a suitable place for her first, somewhere closer to the city, I think."

Tears threatened, but I swallowed them back and nodded. I had never felt such a sense of relief. "Thank you, Uncle Alak."

"We move tonight, my boy," he said. "Once you clean up."

I nodded readily and followed him down the path toward a shallow stream with clean, rushing water gurgling over smooth stones.

"Watch yourself," he said as I ventured out. "It's incredibly slick."

He tossed me a small chunk of soap before he sat in the tall grass and wrote to his son.

I removed my shirt and wrung it out as best I could, ignoring the blood and dirt staining the water. Once I set my shirt out to try on the bank, I bent over and washed my hair, face, and torso in the cool water.

My fingers gingerly ran across the swollen, tender part of my skull where I had been hit. I grimaced and pulled my hand away, thankful there was no fresh blood.

A good shiver passed through me as I dried myself while Moon ate blades of green grass and drank up the stream from where I stood. She swished her tail and looked around cautiously as though expecting Girl would jump out as she often did and nip at her knees.

"We should leave," my uncle said as he stood and dusted off his trousers."It's a long journey in the dark and I don't trust these roads."

With great obedience I fetched Moon by the bridal, tied a rope through both loops on either side of her cheeks, and made kissing noises until she lumbered along beside me. I tangled my fingers in her black mane and rubbed the side of her dusty neck.

My uncle stood waiting for me and smiled when he saw us coming. His skin looked yellow like old parchment, heavily lined and almost draped over his cheekbones. I tried to ignore how sick he appeared, but even when I lowered my gaze, I could see him in my mind. There was no denying he was in poor health.

"There is something very special about a person when animals are unafraid in his company," he commented.

His words embarrassed me. "She follows because I feed her."

"I will not allow you to easily dismiss the true reason." He placed his hand on my shoulder and pulled me closer. "She follows because she can trust you, my boy. This is a trait to take pride in, no doubt."

For a long moment I remained silent and attempted to disprove his words. She knew nothing of me and my faults, I wanted to tell him. She didn't understand how different I was from the others, how void I felt in the presence of people.

"You don't believe me," he said sadly.

He was correct; I didn't believe his kind words.

"Why is this?" he asked.

"I don't know," I answered honestly.

"Here," he said as he grabbed the rope from my hands and started to turn away.

Immediately Moon stooped and brayed in protest. My uncle placed an apple beneath her lips and she tossed her head from side to side and backed up, forcing him to dig his heels into the ground to steady her.

Her sound of distress made me reach for her, and when I looked at my uncle, he shook his head and chuckled.

"Food is clearly not her incentive," he said as he handed me the rope. "What do you say to that, my son?"

I offered only a smile in return, appreciating Moon's antics almost as much as my uncle's kind words.

"Help me up, child," he said as he stood alongside the donkey. I did as requested, finding him lighter than before as I helped him onto her back. I knew he would not be able to walk long distances and that he would need rest more frequently. If we were truly related, I suspected in his stubbornness would be just like my own and he would push himself far longer than he should have.

"Take off the mask," he said firmly as I walked alongside Moon.

The sky was brightly lit with stars, the moon creeping higher into the sky. The clouds remained in the distance, mere wisps left behind without a hint of rain.

I did as my uncle suggested and took a deep breath. He held out his hand, took the mask from me, and dropped it into a leather bag tied to our pack. When I looked at him, he smiled back, his gaze never leaving mine.

"I wish everyone was like you," I said suddenly.

It was his turn to be embarrassed. He smiled but didn't speak for a long moment as we continued down the narrowed path. Crickets chirped in the distance while birds nesting in the trees berated us for disturbing them.

"On the outside, I am a frail old man with missing fingers and yellowed skin," he said at last. "Is that what you see?"

"No," I replied quickly, fearing I would insult him. "I see…you."

"And who might that be?"

"My uncle."

But he was much more than an Uncle in my eyes, a relation that seemed distant. He was a father and a teacher, an example of patience and strength. I drew much from him, possibly more than he knew. In a matter of weeks, I had spoken more to him and received more kindness than I had in over a decade beneath my father's house.

He nodded, seeming satisfied with my answer. "Remember that, Erik. There are more ways to see a person than with one's eyes."

That had not been my experience. Despite knowing I should have soaked up his words and fed off the sentiment, I wasn't ready to accept them. He was a man worthy of praise; I was riddled with faults beyond comprehension. I felt as though I had somehow deceived my uncle into believing I was someone better than what I truly was inside.

"No one will see me the way you do," I said under my breath. The thought made me shudder.

"If you speak in that manner, then you make your own truth," he said.

I frowned. The truth needed little persuasion from me.

"And never argue with an old man," he added with a laugh.

He handled my surly nature in the only way I would allow. I looked up at him and pursed my lips.

"Speak," he ordered. "No secrets from an old man, either."

"Why did you take me?"

He didn't seem surprised by my question. He sat back and shrugged. "If you were in my place and you saw a boy coping with great misery and abuse, what would you have done?"

I had never considered what it would be like on the outside looking in on my life. There were many evenings when I sat alone and clearly heard strangers deep in conversation. I sat completely silent, afraid they would notice me. On other nights when my father decided to pay me a visit, there was no such thing as silence. He would yell and curse, throwing items across the darkened confines, overturning the table I sat at for hours alone drawing on scraps of paper or entertaining myself with discarded rubbish.

If I could hear them, then obviously they must have heard me as well. No one had ever so much as shouted for my father to stop hitting me or questioned why my parents claimed their son had died when clearly I was still there within their house. No one asked of me, let alone offered, their help.

"I would have…" I started. "Felt very sorry for him."

"Would you have helped him?"

I shook my head, feeling an overwhelming sense of disappointment in myself.

"Why not?"

"I wouldn't know what to do."

"Sometimes when you act without thinking, you do as your heart tells you," he said. "There was no rationalizing, Erik. When I saw you, when I knew what he had done to you all this time, there was nothing to consider."

I envied his self-assured, matter-of-fact words and the way he spoke. He held such confidence that I looked up at him in awe, wondering how I could capture just an ounce of what he possessed.

"What else?" he asked.

It took me a while to speak again. I had survived beneath my parents' house, but my miserable childhood still threatened to destroy me.

"Why didn't you come for me sooner?" I asked, my throat almost too tight to speak.

His expression darkened. "I was away," he answered, "gone away much longer than I had intended."

"Where?" I asked.

"An old man's troubles shouldn't be your burden," he said, his voice holding such authority that I knew he wouldn't answer my question.

I was at least satisfied knowing he had not stood idle over the years and left me to suffer.

We made our way silently through the night for a while until I stumbled several times and Moon's pace dwindled.

"Do you see that?" my uncle asked suddenly, pointing a knobby finger up ahead.

Plumes of smoke stretched into the night sky, signaling we were near some nameless small town.

"That's where we stay for the night."

I met his eye, my brow furrowed. "But…how?" I asked, knowing we had little funds remaining. My stomach growled and I wanted a meal over a bed.

He didn't look at me when he spoke and I studied his hardened expression. "I lightened a few pockets," he said, his voice colder than I had ever heard it before. "A small debt paid for the harm done."


	40. An Ordinary Boy Pt 1

Giver40

My legs felt leaden by the time we reached the small town. To me it felt like the middle of the night, but the town was quite alive with people enjoying some type of celebration. Children shouted and laughed, men and women sang and carried on from the center of town where they had lit torches.

The scent of dinner and beer made my mouth water and I trudged forward, led by stomach more than my desire to be near a crowd.

"That's my boy," my uncle said. He chuckled to himself as I quickened my pace.

The closer we got to the celebration, I realized the children running in circles and skipping about wore brightly colored masks. My eyes widened in surprise and I came to a sudden stop. With a questioning look, I turned to my uncle.

"A night to keep the spirits away," he said before I asked. His smile widened, a twinkle in his gaze. "A night to blend in perfectly, my child."

Still I hesitated, feeling as though they mocked me even though I hadn't been spotted. My uncle dismounted and I led Moon toward a stable set within the shadows. A young man not much older than me grinned and said he would take good care of Moon until we left in the morning.

Once he turned away, I paused, realizing he had looked me in the eye without fear. He hadn't stared at the mask, either, as for the night it was normal.

I looked over my shoulder to see if he gawked as I left the stable, but he had disappeared. Inwardly I smiled and realized that Uncle Alak had possibly been correct and there was a chance I could blend in for a night. The thought made me tremble with anticipation.

I ran to my uncle immediately, cutting my way through the crowd until I found him with his cane in one hand and coins in the other. A heavy-set woman with dark red hair and wide eyes sauntered beside him and moved like a dancer as she showed him the spread of food. Large hips swayed back and forth with each step and she glanced back to make sure he followed her.

"Eat as much as you like," she said. Her voice was like music, her every move sensual and alluring. She wore a simple green mask with feathers at the corners of her eyes, which made her fiery hair even brighter.

My uncle put his arm around me. "My son and I thank you for your hospitality."

His acknowledgment widened my eyes. I looked up at him and reached around, holding him tight, wanting desperately to be his son and have him as my father.

The woman reached out and placed her hand on my shoulder, which startled me. Had my uncle not held firmly to me, I would have jumped back and ran away.

"And what is your name, my dear?" she questioned as she ran her fingers along my arm.

Her touch was foreign to me and I drew as far back as I could, alarmed by her sudden, almost intimate display of affection. She was around my mother's age, though heavier set with a round face and pleasant smile. I wondered if she would have screamed or ran away if she knew the mask I wore was truly hiding wickedness beneath. The illusion allowed comfort, hid what my mother couldn't accept or even tolerate.

My uncle grunted and nudged me. "This is Erik," he said proudly. "And he is a very shy young man."

She smiled brightly at me. "I see he came prepared for our festivities. Perhaps my daughter could help you decorate your mask?" she offered. "She spent the better part of the day transforming herself into a bird." She laughed to herself and held her hand over her stomach. "She will undoubtedly offer to transform you into something as well, Erik."

I shook my head at once, not wanting to draw any more attention to myself than necessary. Already I felt out of place, as though somehow the others would know the mask I wore was not for decoration.

"You are too kind." My uncle stepped forward and ushered me away. He put his lips to my ear and spoke softly. "Tonight you are no different than anyone else here," he assured me. "Relax, Erik, please try to enjoy yourself." He paused and patted my back. "And remember, you are a guest here. They will be curious of your travels."

Relaxation and enjoyment were words I had never considered adding to my vocabulary, but he gave me no time to argue. With that, he pushed me toward a group of young women and men my age and walked toward a throng of men with mugs of beer in hand.

Awkwardly I stood alone, my heart beating fast and hard. I clasped my hands and looked away from the group standing no more than five paces away. They talked amongst themselves and eyed me, though not with malice. Still, I would not be the first to move, to offer myself up to them.

I studied the ground and balled my hands into fists, unsure of what I should do or how I should act. Conversation would not come easily to me and I started to turn and walk away, preferring the shadows to open spaces. I could easily slip into the stable and spend the rest of the evening brushing Moon and feeding her oats and hay. Unwilling to speak, I felt more comfortable in the presence of another beast than people my age.

"Hello there," a high, feminine voice said.

I paused briefly, then silently berated myself for thinking this woman spoke to me. Footsteps trudged toward me and a hand fell lightly onto my shoulder.

Her touch turned me into a silent statue. I inhaled sharply, my lips parted in shock at the delicate way she made me pause. My heart stuttered as I stood waiting for her to acknowledge me, for cruel words to tell me of why I didn't belong, to question my presence as well as my appearance.

"What are you supposed to be?" she asked as she stepped in front of me.

Words refused to form. I gawked lamely at her, this blue-eyed sprite with her bee-stung lips and pure alabaster skin.

"I'm a swan," she said as she stepped back and showed her white dress and matching white feathered mask. Her auburn hair had been pulled back and secured with a white ribbon, the pale colors making her into an apparition. "My mother said you wanted no further decoration."

I nodded.

She smiled, though it seemed forced. "What is your name?" she questioned.

Finally, a question I could answer. "Erik," I said.

"Amelie," she said with a curtsy. "Swan princess." She batted her eyelashes at me, which I suspected was supposed to add to her charm. Instead it made her look as though she attempted to blink dirt out of her eye. "And you are?"

"An invisible boy," I answered, still distracted by her rapid blinking.

Her smile widened. "Ah, so that's why you are so quiet? You're invisible." She laughed, a genuine, happy sound as she reached for my hand and pulled me toward the others dressed in darker clothing with colorful, frightening masks. Her voice reminded me of her mother and I wondered if when these strangers saw me, they thought I mirrored my uncle.

I refused to move and dug my heels into the ground, but she tugged me hard and looked back.

"Are you afraid?" she asked with a coy smile.

I was more than afraid. I was petrified. Head bowed, I finally trudged behind her.

"This is Erik," she announced, still holding fast to my hand. I made no attempt to grasp her fingers, but she was kind enough not to mention it. Her touch was warm and smooth, mine cold and damp like a dead fish. "And he is invisible."

I stood a full head taller than the rest, which became noticeable once we were grouped together. Amelie released my hand and motioned wildly as she talked to another girl with dark skin and eyes. The others, who all knew one another, began discussing something that happened the previous day.

With nothing of interest to say, I clasped my hands and bowed my head, willing myself to become invisible.

Before I could fully pity myself, a group of musicians took to a platform and immediately began to play a song I didn't recognize. The music was incredibly fast-paced and out of tune, while the woman singing had a voice like a cat screeching in an alley.

To my surprise, men put their mugs down and women skittered into place. One by one, they took to the open space and began dancing about as though the tune assaulting our ears was pleasant enough and worthy of acknowledgment.

Eventually, I was the only one left off to the side, observing rather than participating. I hugged my arms across my chest and watched briefly before I walked toward the table with food and piled a plate with as much as I could carry.

While I sat at the edge of the table, I watched as my uncle danced with the others. He was not light on his feet, but the women around him laughed and seemed to enjoy his company. He winked at Amelie's mother and spun her around, which made her shriek with laughter.

I sighed to myself and ate in silence, feeling more out of place than I had before. I wasn't made for conversation or polite company. I was best left in shadows, away from the rest of the world.

But my sulking was interrupted when Amelie suddenly appeared and plopped down beside me.

Her chest noticeably heaved, her lips parted and face flushed. "Are you almost finished?" she asked breathlessly.

I stuffed a carrot into my mouth and shrugged, overwhelmed by her appearance and breathy voice. My plate was empty aside from chicken bones, which I considered chewing on merely to avoid conversation.

"Well, you cannot just sit here," she said as she pushed my plate aside and grabbed me by the arm. "Dance."

"I don't know how," I answered, nor was I willing to try. Wide-eyed, I looked at her, wondering what possessed her to drag me to my feet.

"Neither do we," she said over her shoulder. "And that woman doesn't know how to sing, either, but no one will ask her to stop. She will clobber you if you try!"

Her words made me laugh and before I knew it, she dragged me toward the others. Once we were surrounded, she began skipping and jumping about while I stood rigid. She grabbed my arms and began wrenching them back and forth.

"You enjoy this?" I asked.

"It's better than standing there," she said with a laugh.

The song ended and Amelie's shoulders dropped. She shook her head at me. "What do you enjoy?" she asked.

"Music," I answered at last. "But not this music."

"What's wrong with this music?" she asked, though she didn't give me a moment to answer. "You could play better? Are you a traveling musician?" she asked, her tone light and teasing.

"I could play better than anyone you've heard before." I stood straighter and glanced at the musicians, who were slouched and clumsy even in appearance.

She took a step back, looking me over, then nodded in approval. "Then play."

I stammered for words, which made her laugh.

"You won't do it, will you?" she questioned.

Hands balled into fists, I stalked toward the musicians, determined to prove her wrong on this account. "I most certainly will," I said over my shoulder.

Amelie followed close behind. I glanced back at her and caught sight of my uncle, who watched me curiously as I made my way toward the singer and the men who had cast their instruments aside.

"I would like to play," I blurted out.

Once I spoke, I felt incredibly foolish. There I was, a stranger intruding amongst friends, demanding I be allowed to play for them.

"With us?" the singer asked.

I had no desire to play with them, as I knew I could play better than them. Still, I nodded.

"What do you play?" the singer asked as she wrapped her shawl around her shoulders and looked me up and down skeptically.

"The violin," I answered.

My uncle sidled up alongside me and nodded toward the violinist. "I could tune it for you, sir," he said politely. It amused me that he realized it was in need of tuning, even if the owner did not.

With a great deal of reluctance, the portly man handed over his violin and sneered at us. "But of course," he answered snidely.

"You are a mystery, my child," my uncle muttered. He glanced at me, a twinkle in his eye as he quickly turned the pegs and listened to the pitch. "You hide in the shadows, then burst out to be heard in a song." He handed me the violin and nodded toward the stage. "Entertain them a while," he said.

I took a deep breath and looked to him, gleaning confidence from his gentle, encouraging expression. The singer tapped me on the shoulder and said quietly, "Do you know _Pretty Girls_?" she asked.

She hummed a few bars and took up a tambourine, which she tapped gently. To my dismay, she began to singer louder and the gentleman behind her with a flute also began to play. With a sigh, I began to play as well and the crowd started to dance.

Amelie kept to the front of the stage and twirled around, clapping her hands above her head. It was a simple folk sound with no variation in melody and repetitive lyrics, but the audience responded and sang along loudly.

For all of its imperfections, it was enjoyable, and when the song ended, the crowd erupted in cheers.

Amelie danced her way toward where I stood with the violin in hand and touched my shoulder. "You are not so invisible," she said, her voice almost musical.

"I suppose not," I answered.

No one had ever approached me with such calm and acceptance. I glanced around at the men, women, and children both my age and younger, all of them donning masks and enjoying the evening. No one looked at me as an oddity or out of place. Conversation, though stilted, was not as impossible as I had expected.

"Will you dance?" she asked.

I laughed to myself. "No, I will not."

She shrugged, seemingly expecting this answer. "Will you play another song, then? You were truly skilled at playing, even if you were somewhat drowned out by the others."

"Yes," I replied. "Yes, I will play again...if they allow it."

"They would be fools not to allow it," she said firmly. She motioned toward the singer. "Marie, step aside, you yowling cat. He's going to play."

The singer looked aghast and pretended to swat at Amelie. "You little cow. Oh, I will tell mother about you!"

Amelie laughed in return. "My sister," she explained. "The only one brave enough to sing before the crowd, even if she's the least talented."

Marie nudged her sister in the ribs. "The crowd always applauds," she pointed out.

"You sing out of your nose," I said to her.

The singer—Marie—widened her eyes and looked down her nose at me. "Do I?" she questioned dryly.

"It's an observation, not necessarily an insult," I replied. In truth, it was both.

"Well, I didn't observe or insult your music." She crossed her arms and turned away, though I could hear her testing her voice. I had half the mind to tell her my music garnered no insult.

"Where did you learn to play?" Amelie asked.

"I taught myself."

She smiled again, her dark eyes twinkling in the torch light. "I wish I could sing," she said wistfully. She pulled off her mask and rubbed her slender nose. She fanned herself with her swan's mask, her thin face much younger than I had anticipated.

"Is something wrong?" she asked, immediately fitting her mask back into place.

I watched her a moment, wishing I could trade my music for the ability to pull off my mask and be no different from her or anyone else.

At last I shook my head, for once setting aside my misery. If for one night I could be ordinary, then I would accept it. "Not at all," I replied.


	41. An Ordinary Boy Pt 2

This is affectionate known as "the pie chapter". I promised there would be some nice moments for Kire and this is one of them!

Giver41

It soon became apparent that the crowd had little interest in what was being played as long as they could dance and sway to the music.

Rather than sit in the corner and sulk, I played with the band, listening to the dozens of men and women drown out Marie's words. Several times I caught her attempting to change the way she sang, and every time she caught me looking at her, she quickly turned away.

"You should play every night!" a man with a pot belly and ruddy face said as he clapped me hard on the back. "You are like an angel sent from heaven."

Despite smelling like he'd indulged in an entire barrel of beer, I smiled back and thanked him quietly, then slipped behind Marie while the musicians took a break. The smell of alcohol made me shiver, the man's praise overshadowed by his unintentionally heavy hand. It took several deep breaths to steady my suddenly racing heart.

I enjoyed their appreciation for my music, but I didn't want to stand before the crowd. My head began to ache from the blow I had taken earlier in the day, my eyes heavy, my heart still a beat behind. With all of the activity and the brightly colored masks, I had nearly forgotten my heartache.

Amelie's mother laughed loudly from across the open space as she took her seat beside several other masked women. I watched her for a moment and wondered how quickly my parents had forgotten me.

They were sullen, angry people, more concerned with keeping me away from the world rather than living their lives. I wondered what they would have thought if they had seen me playing a violin, of the crowd's reaction to my talent.

They would have thought me possessed by some evil force, tricking innocent people with my unnatural abilities. They would have set the crowd after me, encouraged them to beat and reject me.

Terror ripped through me and I immediately set the violin down, taking great care with the instrument. Quickly I backed away and felt a hand on my shoulder.

"Uncle," I said under my breath.

I turned and found a swan princess instead. "You do realize you are horrible at being invisible, right?" she teased.

Her gentle, friendly tone kept me from bolting away. She smiled when I didn't reply and giggled to herself.

"My mother said you are due for a fine reward," she stated, her eyes wide as though this would somehow tempt me. "It's delicious."

"Reward?" I questioned.

She nodded. "Mother rewards everyone with pie."

That was all the prompting I needed. She tugged me along, though it was mostly for show as I had no desire to protest. Amelie ushered me toward the end of a table and sat beside me on the bench while her mother delivered dessert to the table.

My mouth watered at the sight of flaky crusts and berries oozing from the inside.

"Blueberry, strawberry, or peach?" she asked.

It seemed unfair to choose just one.

"May I have a little of each?" I asked quietly.

She smiled down at me. "My, you are so humble, young man. You speak boldly with a violin in hand, but set you in the middle of the crowd with only your tongue and you barely have a voice."

I wasn't sure what to make of her words or whether she meant her tone to be light or condescending. In silence I searched for my uncle and found him gathered with a group of older men. He caught me staring and nodded back, attempting to reassure me.

"Peach is my favorite," Amelie's mother said as she placed dessert in front of me. As requested, I was given three slices; one of each flavor. The flaky crust and giant, glazed berries and fruit took up the entire plate and I had every intention of filling my gut.

Her dessert was a delicacy unlike any other and just the smell of it made my mouth water with anticipation. My eyes closed with the first sweet bite and I couldn't imagine a more pleasurable experience.

Amelie rested her chin in the palm of her hand and watched me while I ate. I paused after indulging in a bite from each slice and looked at her.

"I beg your pardon?" I said as I wiped my mouth with the back of my hand.

She shrugged and pulled off her mask. "Take yours off while you eat," she suggested.

I must have noticeably recoiled as she too stiffened and drew back from me, a hint of fear in her gaze.

"No," I said firmly.

Her eyes widened. I held my breath, afraid she would further question me or worse, attempt to remove it herself. I waited for the people gathered around us to take notice, to pause from their meals and study me closer.

"Do you like it?" her mom asked suddenly.

I looked away from Amelie and nodded, afraid she would tell me to remove the mask while I ate.

"Good, then I expect an empty plate from you," she said before she walked away.

I continued to eat in silence while Amelie dutifully sat beside me. I longed for conversation, for a moment of seeming ordinary, but I feared the consequences. Already she had to suspect I was not at all like her.

"You will be sick if you eat another bite," Amelie pointed out.

I purposely shoveled more blueberries into my mouth. "Highly doubtful," I replied.

"You should see yourself in the mirror," she said with a shake of her head.

Alarmed, I froze, my fork clattering from my grasp and onto the edge of my plate.

"Your lips are blue." Amelie laughed. She plucked a berry from my plate and popped it into her mouth. "How about mine?"

It took a moment for my heart to settle and voice to emerge. "Still red."

"I'll settle for red," she replied. "I couldn't possibly eat another berry."

I ate another one on her behalf, which made her chuckle.

"Did you think that was a challenge?" she asked.

Everything to me was a challenge. "Your mother told me to eat it," I said defensively.

"She will be very pleased," Amelie said with a nod. "And she will undoubtedly ask you to stay here forever so she could fatten you up some."

I wistfully considered the idea of being asked to stay, but knew my façade would only last for the night. I entertained the fantasy of a mother bringing me desserts, of cooking meals just for me and standing idly by, fretting as I took the first bite.

From the corner of my eye I saw Amelie's mother across the table watching me. She smiled and nodded in approval when I looked up, the last of the cherry glaze resting on the edge of my fork. Within minutes I had succeeded in gorging on the finest dessert I ever enjoyed in my life.

"You have the saddest eyes I have ever seen," Amelie said suddenly. She placed her hand over mine, her touch so warm and soft I found it impossible to deny. "Have you lost someone close to you?"

My heart ached and I nodded in silence, raw emotion threatening. Dogs barked in the distance and I swallowed hard, realizing mere hours had passed since I had buried my loyal friend.

The problem wasn't only that I had suffered a loss as it was I had never managed to gain. My time with Girl had been fleeting, and I knew the days I had left with my uncle were short. These were not ideas I wanted to entertain, not when there was music in the air and a girl whose warmth I could feel beside me.

Other than my uncle, I had no one. Looking around at the people gathered in the night, they were closely knit friends and family, all of them embracing, laughing, and enjoying the simple act of being together.

Surrounded by laughter and friendship, I felt utterly alone and discarded. I dreaded the night's end as once the daylight came, the masks would be gone and so would my disguise. By tomorrow I would be strange, a boy in a mask, an unwelcomed stranger.

"You have a bruise almost all the way around your neck. I can see it peeking out from beneath your shirt," she said, her voice suddenly quiet. "Did someone hurt you?"

I nodded, ashamed of what I was beneath. She had no idea how deeply I had been hurt, how much I still hurt.

"Is that why you don't want to remove the mask?"

Again I nodded, savoring the excuse.

She frowned. "I understand," she said, her voice gentle, almost soothing. She squeezed my hand hard and then pulled away as she stood.

"Where are you going?" I asked, afraid I had frightened her away. If only for the night, I wanted her friendship.

She glanced over her shoulder at me and smiled. "The swan princess is going to dance one last time," she said coyly. "Would the invisible boy care to join her?"

I had no desire to dance, but even less desire to be alone. Without a word I stood and followed her, accepting her hand as she reached back to me.

Taking a deep breath, I laced my fingers with hers and tried to convince myself this was a normal act. Had I not been terrified, it would have been an enjoyable sensation.

Awkward was a trait shared by all boys my age, though I focused solely on my own difficulties. Amelie stood at a distance and placed her hands on my shoulders, then waited for me to do the same. Standing off to the side, we swayed in a circle, threatening to topple over at any moment with our jarring stiff-legged movements.

Amelie giggled nervously, and seeing her own fears, made me realize I wasn't the only one feeling incompetent. Couples swayed around us, light and deft on their feet as though they were made of some pliant material while I was made of lead.

"Am I doing this wrong?" I asked.

She nodded but laughed nonetheless.

"Why is that amusing?" I questioned.

"You can make beautiful music, but you can't dance to it." She smiled, her eyes still shining bright despite the darkness. "Music is less frightening than dancing with a girl, isn't it?"

I nodded back and took a breath, attempting to relax. She danced with me merely because I lied to her, hid the awful truth. Instead of shame, I felt a spike of pride in my deception. I stepped in closer and gauged her reaction, waited for her to draw back when she looked me in the eye. Instead she lowered her gaze, smiled nervously, and leaned in closer, her small hands gripping me tightly, as though she feared letting go.

"You wish only to prove me wrong, don't you?" she questioned.

Again I nodded. All I ever wanted, all I would ever want, was to prove the world wrong.

At last I found the rhythm, and when I whirled her around, she tossed her head back and laughed, her body trembling in my grasp. The music ended, but as I released her and stepped away, I felt humbled by the power emanating from two people—two strangers—joined for a song.

I studied her for a long moment, this swan princess beneath the moonlight, this beautiful moment birthed by lies.


	42. A Beautiful Girl

Giver42

We danced through several songs, each one blending into the next as I kept my trembling hands on her shoulders and avoided her gaze. She giggled when I missed a step, I smiled when she leaned in closer, so close I could feel her breaths on the left side of my face.

Despite knowing I would never see her again once dawn approached, I swore I was in love with her—or at the very least, the idea of her.

"Would you care to walk with me?" she asked as the slower melodies ended and the musicians took to a song with a faster tempo.

I nodded and allowed her to lace her fingers with mine as I followed her off to the side. My hand was still unbearably clammy, my nerves so distraught I couldn't keep myself from trembling.

"Where are we going?" I asked.

She shrugged and weaved her way through the crowd. Willingly I followed a step behind, led by her smile and sweet scent, calmed and comforted by how different the world seemed on this night.

"There," I said, pointing at the stable. "So I may visit a friend."

She eyed me curiously. "You have a friend in the stable?"

"A donkey," I answered proudly.

She threw back her head and laughed. "Honestly?"

My pace slowed and I pulled my hand from hers, suddenly aware of how absurd I must have sounded. I stood at a distance, my gaze lowered. I had hesitated too long to make my words into a jest, and the longer I stood in silence, the more foolish I became.

Just when I thought the world had changed, I bitterly realized it would always be the same. I was destined to stand at a distance whether I blended within a crowd or not. The mask would never hide my true, uncertain self. There was no way to hide my ineptness when it came to conversation or my lack of friendships.

No, the word would not change and neither would I.

"What is the name of your friend?" she asked.

Her question mocked me and I grit my teeth. "Her name is Moon," I grumbled.

"May I meet her?" Amelie questioned.

I shot her an angry look, but she merely smiled back and tilted her head to the side. It took me a moment to search her face and know she was serious; she wished to meet Moon.

"Why would you want to meet her?" I challenged.

She shrugged. "My feet hurt from dancing," she answered casually.

I nodded, unsure of what to make of her request, afraid she deceived me. She had charmed me with her smile, hypnotized me with her laugh and soft touch. At first I had wanted to protest but now I allowed her to guide me through the night.

We entered the stable and walked down the row of horse stalls toward the back where a short, wooden fence contained Moon. It was darker than the rest of the stable, but just as quiet and peaceful. With a bucket of fresh water and trough mostly empty, I knew she had enjoyed her night as much as I had.

"Careful," I warned. "She will bite strangers," I lied.

Amelie seemed undeterred. She walked slowly toward Moon and spoke softly, attempting to tame the beast in the same manner she had tamed and earned the trust of an invisible boy.

Once she managed to pat the side of Moon's neck with no fuss or protest from the donkey, Amelie smiled. "She's very sweet. I think she likes me."

I regarded the two of them for a moment and considered Moon's fate. Taking a breath, I climbed onto the wooden pen and sat with my arms crossed and eyes narrowed.

"My uncle," I started, pausing once I realized my mistake. I licked my lips. "He gave her to my father and me several weeks ago, but we cannot take her much farther."

Amelie gave a sympathetic nod.

"Would you care for her until I return?" I asked hopefully.

Her eyes brightened. "I would have to ask my brother," she answered. "But I would be honored."

I nodded, hopeful of the situation. Within Amelie's care, Moon would be content. There would be no need to worry if she was whipped or beaten or sold for meat. When I reached Paris, I could ask my cousin to send for Moon.

"Will you ask your brother tonight?" I questioned, anxious to have a place for her.

She shook her head. "He is due back in the morning," she answered. I noticed her hesitate, but I remained quiet and unusually patient. "He sold some of my father's belongings to a man in a traveling fair," she said, bowing her head. "And mother's jewelry. He had to walk a town over to see if he would buy all she could spare."

Her words concerned me. I assumed her father had died or perhaps abandoned her family, which angered me. Even though it had only been a few hours, I felt drawn to Amelie and her mother. They were kind and accepting of strangers. Her mother had taken great pleasure in stuffing me full of pie while Amelie had forced me from my shell.

I wanted no harm to come to them.

"Why did she sell her jewelry?" I asked, even though I knew it was none of my business.

Amelie shrugged, her eyes glassy and voice weak when she answered. "I would rather not say."

With a nod, I left it at that. In silence she climbed up beside me and gripped the fence with both hands. I stared at her knuckles and slowly unfolded my arms, placing my hand beside hers.

I longed to touch her one last time, to offer a moment of comfort despite having no idea what I should do or what to say. Suffering had come to me because I deserved it, but Amelie appeared so beautiful and innocent. I feared I would only further hurt her in my feeble attempt to help.

The longer we sat there, the more I doubted myself. Whatever had happened to her father, she would find no solace in my presence. She deserved more than I could offer.

Moon swished her tail and Amelie startled. She threw her hands up, which made me jump as well. I gasped and watched her legs shoot straight out as she fell backwards into the straw with a muffled shriek.

When I twisted and looked back at her, she lay with her arms over her head, her mouth agape, and eyes wide open.

Panic filled me, choked the words from my throat. I knew I should have raced away to find help or search for her pulse, but I froze.

"Are you…dead?" I asked when she didn't move. My voice emerged as a whisper, my question absurd. I hadn't the sense to question her with greater urgency, mostly because I had never been on this side of an urgent situation. If I had fallen off the fence, my father would have laughed or hit me for my stupidity, he certainly would have never considered helping me up.

My God, I thought to myself, I had somehow managed to harm her—kill her—without even laying a hand on her.

Her gaze flitted to mine, her parted lips forming an easy smile. All at once her body began to shake and she squeezed her eyes shut. Concern still rattled through me and I started to leap over the small fence and drag her back to her mother.

"No," she managed to squeak. At first I thought she was in tears, but then the unexpected happened—she began to laugh. It was not a dainty, feminine laugh, but a hearty sound that made it impossible for her to catch her breath. "No, I'm not dead. I thought she was going to kick me, though."

She reached up to me and, once I was certain she hadn't injured herself, I laughed as well. I pulled her to her feet as she continued to chuckle and eventually wiped the tears from her eyes.

"Oh, if you had seen your expression," she said once she could breathe. She made a face, but her fit of laughter continued.

"Mine?" I asked incredulously.

Within seconds, her uncontrolled giggles became infectious and both of us could barely catch our breath.

We stood on opposite sides of the stall, Amelie still ankle deep in straw, me beside Moon, who snorted in disgust of our antics. "I'm not the one who fell," I pointed out.

"You looked as though you would fall over as well," she said, still attempting to contain herself. "You were terribly concerned."

Once I was certain she was not injured, I sighed and chuckled. The feelings churning within me were light and welcomed, the weavings of a new life in a dark fabric.

"Concerned," I argued. I leaned over the fence and smirked. "Not _terribly_ concerned."

"Oh, of course," she said with another laugh as she leaned against the fence separating us. "I cannot believe you thought I died," she giggled. "You must think I am a very fragile girl."

"Beautiful," I corrected as I reached out and pulled a piece of straw from her hair.

We both paused. Her features straightened and she stared at me, her gaze drawn to my lips, her body leaning forward. My hand lingered inches from her shoulder, but suddenly I was too afraid to touch her.

"Truly?" she asked.

Unable to speak, I nodded.

My heart stuttered as we stood there in the meager light, the sound of laughter and music in the distance. I swallowed and studied her lips, wanting to know what it would feel like to kiss her, but too paralyzed by doubt and insecurity to lean forward.

Within this wild, surreal moment, I had forgotten how much I had once craved my own mother's affection, how many times I had wanted to chase her down and beg her to love me.

But this moment, filled with an erratic heartbeat and trembling hands, had come without an ounce of begging. She stood before me without being asked. She looked at me because she didn't know better.

I closed my eyes, hoping instinct would take over or she would give me direction. Unfortunately, I had no instinct when it came to such instances.

"Erik," she said softly, her breathy whisper enough to make me shiver.

I barely heard her over my desperate, pleading heart pounding so hard against my ribs I thought I would pass out.

"Erik!" a man shouted.

My eyes popped open. Amelie and I both jumped away from one another as though we had nearly been caught in the midst of a grave conspiracy.

She immediately turned away from me and straightened her hair while I smoothed my hands down my pant legs and sucked in a breath. My insides felt knotted, a part of me I hadn't realized existed seemed neglected.

"Erik!"

I recognized my uncle's voice and craned my neck until I saw him striding toward me. "Here!" I called.

"What are you doing?" he asked as he approached.

"Visiting Moon," I replied innocently enough. My hands shook, palms damp with perspiration.

My uncle turned his attention to Amelie, whose face was still flushed. He looked her over, his hands on his hips and brow furrowed. "And you as well?"

"Your son asked if I would keep her for him," she answered. She reached out and gave Moon a pat on the neck. "I think she's absolutely lovely."

My uncle appeared skeptical, but nodded still and motioned us out of the stable. "It's not polite to steal a pretty girl away," he said. His tone was playful, but his eyes were stern.

"He never stole me," Amelie said quickly. "I asked him to follow."

Uncle Alak sighed and told her we would be out in a moment. She started out of the stable, but paused and looked back at me, concern in her gaze. How quickly we had formed a bond, both of us willing to defend each other. I gave a single nod and she reluctantly trotted off.

Once we stood alone, my uncle turned to face me. He narrowed his eyes into a scrutinizing gaze and stood over me. "To some it would seem lecherous."

I stared back at him. "I don't know what that means," I answered meekly, feeling as though he had lost his trust in me even though I had done nothing wrong.

"Young men your age should not lead or follow young girls into stables, especially not in the middle of the night," he said sharply. "Do you understand what could have happened? What her family might think of her?"

I flinched at his tone and turned my face away. My actions were borne out of awkward friendship, not a devious master plan. In truth, I hadn't put an ounce of thought into our adventure to visit Moon.

"I meant no harm," I said under my breath. "I wouldn't hurt her."

He sighed, his features relaxing. "I know this," he replied softly. "But others may not."

I forced myself to look at him again. The mask I wore had never seemed so heavy. "I know."

My uncle shook his head at me. "You are truly no different than any boy of your age," he replied. "The same desires…" he pursed his lips and cleared his throat, though I had no idea what embarrassed him. "It's normal, but perhaps not appropriate. You must learn to control yourself."

His words confused me. I bowed my head. "Uncle," I said softly, unsure of why I felt so ashamed to speak. "She makes me feel…different."

He smiled back and me and nodded. "All pretty girls have that effect on young men your age. They make you want to act foolishly and abandon all reasoning."

My cheeks burned. The sensation terrified and elated me, made me feel completely out of control and incompetent, yet somehow wild and free. As different as I felt from the rest of the world, his words made me feel as though I were an ordinary boy on the verge of turning fourteen.

I wanted to feel this way again; turbulent and confused, yet filled with joy and hope.

"We should thank them and bid them good-night," my uncle suggested.

Though I knew he was correct, I had no desire for the evening to end.

"What will happen tomorrow?" I blurted out.

A deep frown set into his face, his eyes lowering. "Tomorrow we continue our travels," he said.

That was not entirely what I heard in his voice. In my mind, he said something else. _Tomorrow you will be different again._


	43. To Hold Her Hand Forever

Giver43

My uncle grunted and pulled me closer as we left the stable. I found him curiously smiling at me and when I faced him, he chuckled to himself.

"Have I done something to amuse you?" I asked, feeling increasingly self-conscious. I feared the slightest misstep, a reason to be mocked.

He shook his head. "Do not ever think my laughter is at your expense," he assured me.

"Why did you laugh, then?" I questioned.

He paused and placed his hand on my shoulder. "Tonight you forgot your troubles," he explained. His expression remained warm and assuring. "You were brave, courteous, and I dare say immensely charming."

I gawked at him, certain he was mistaken. Throughout the night I had been terrified, awkward, and plagued by insecurity. I couldn't imagine a more wonderful trepidation.

"You did very well," he said with a nod. "You played before a crowd and danced with a lovely young woman your age."

"Because you…forced me," I replied, a hint of humor in my tone.

"Ah, indeed I did." His smile broadened and he winked at me. "You will thank me one day."

I grinned back at him as we made our way out of the stable and found Amelie and her mother waiting for us. Amelie wrung her hands while her mother stood with her arms crossed.

"Madame Batiste," my uncle said with a nod. He didn't sound nearly as nervous as I felt.

"My daughter said she was afraid you would punish your son for wandering off," she said, her voice filled with concern. "She assured me your son was a gentleman and had no ill intentions. I trust you will not harm the boy."

My uncle's expression sobered. He looked at me briefly, then cleared his throat and turned back to Amelie's mother. "Madame, I assure you, no harm has ever come to this young man at my hands."

Madame Batiste put a protective arm around her daughter. "He hides a bruise around his neck," she said, accusation in her voice. "I saw the marks when he was eating."

"He has never hit me," I blurted out. "Not once, not ever, not even when I deserved to be beaten bloody."

Her eyes widened at my words, though she remained speechless.

I spoke frantically, pleading with her to believe me. I stepped forward and clasped my hands. "Please, Madame, he is a good father, the best one I have had."

She narrowed her eyes. "The best?" she questioned. "What do you mean?"

Uncle Alak drew me back with a careful hand to my arm. "Adoptive father," he said reluctantly. "His father is my brother. He was not a patient man or loving toward his son. I have raised him as my own, Madame. Not long enough, I'm afraid, but as long as the good Lord would allow."

I turned away and knew I had spoken out of turn. They would look at me differently now, as a child who had gone unwanted.

"You have done no wrong," Uncle Alak assured me. He squeezed my shoulder, his grip firm.

I heard Madame Batiste sigh. "Monsieur, I apologize for making assumptions. I had no idea of his suffering. You are a blessing to this child, then."

"No, Madame, he has blessed a lonely old man." Uncle Alak turned to me and nodded. "You may speak, Erik," he prompted.

"He is the only blessing I have had," I said softly, painfully aware of the truth I spoke. "Until tonight."

When I dared to look up, Amelie stared back at me. She frowned, her eyes glassy with unshed tears. "I didn't want your father to be angry with you," she said to me.

"Your daughter has a very kind heart," my uncle said to Madame Batiste. "I appreciate her concern."

"She is very aware of the world," her mother said with a sigh. "Especially with her father… gone. They were very close, Monsieur Kimmer. His death, his _murder_, it has been difficult on us."

Amelie's bottom lip trembled and she turned away, burying her face against her mother's shoulder. I studied them a moment, conflicted between being remorseful and angry for them.

"Why?" I asked suddenly. "Why was he killed?"

Madame Batiste's lips parted when she turned toward me, horror in her gaze.

"Forgive him," my uncle said. "He is very passionate at times and has great compassion for others."

She nodded and smoothed her hand tenderly over her daughter's hair. I found the gesture intimate and beautiful in a moment of heartache. Inwardly I shuddered, longing for mercy and comfort, for one night of my own suffering to be treated with such care.

"He was alone in the field. My son found him in the dead of night," Madame Batiste said, her voice quivering. "He had no possessions, no money or jewels. Murdered, it seems, for no purpose other than killing."

Cold swept over me, a chill from such a senseless act. I had been beaten without mercy and without reason. I had been robbed of my childhood, cheated out of thirteen years by the man who had created me. I had been left for dead more times than I could count, yet I was not the head of a household, a man working to support his family.

My uncle squeezed my arm and I realized I was breathing heavy, like a lathered racehorse. I stepped back suddenly, seeking the comfort of shadows.

"This boy has seen too much," Madame Batiste said sadly. "He is reminded of cruelty. I can see the pain in his eyes."

My uncle didn't reply and I was too ashamed to speak. Even with my mask in place I felt as though I had been laid bare.

"We have traveled very far. We should retire for the night," my uncle suggested, though I wasn't sure if his words were aimed at me or an announcement to declare he wished to rest and be alone for a while.

I nodded and prepared to trudge behind him, my night of being whole come to an end. My heart ached, desiring a night that would not end. This darkness was comfort, a disguise I longed to wear.

"May he walk me home?" Amelie questioned.

She stared at me as I hid behind my uncle, her eyes glistening, her swan's mask in her hand. She offered a smile, her face pale and pink lips parted. There was no greater beauty or innocence than Amelie Batiste in that moment. I feared speaking to her, worried if I touched her again the dream would come to an end.

My uncle looked over his shoulder at me. "Answer her," he said when I stood gawking. "Politely, now, Erik."

"I—I," I swallowed hard. "I would be honored," I stammered.

Amelie held out her hand and offered an enigmatic smile. I hesitated, knowing her mother and my uncle looked on and my every word would be weighed and scrutinized should I make one false move.

To lessen my agony, Amelie marched forward and grabbed me by the hand. "This way," she said firmly as she pulled me toward her.

I inhaled sharply, glanced back at her mother and my uncle walking side by side. They followed several steps behind and I caught the twinkle in my uncle's eye, unspoken approval that I was allowed another moment in Amelie's gentle company.

"I apologize," she whispered, her voice barely audible as she hurried me along.

I shot her a look. "To me?"

"Yes, of course." She nervously swiped her hair back from her face with her free hand. "For fetching my mother. I thought he was very angry with you, I thought perhaps—"

"You owe me no apology," I said quickly, still shocked by her offer. "My life is of no concern."

Her pace slowed, her hand loose in my mind. "Of course I owe you an apology," she argued. "Of course your life is of concern."

In silence I walked beside her, wishing I could tell her the truth, longing to be a different person with a better heart.

"My mother was correct," she said sadly. "You have been reminded of cruelty."

"There is too much cruelty," I replied without meeting her gaze.

Her grip tightened, her small fingers laced with mine. The smallest gesture curbed a lifetime of pain and I wanted to hold her hand forever.

"But there is music too," she reminded me. "Beautiful music, as long as my sister isn't singing."

When I dared to look at her, she offered a wide, playful grin. We stood before a modest stone house with an overgrown rose bush leaning over the pathway. Its thorny branches stretched toward the door, guarding the entrance. In shadows, the long, slender stems looked like a witch's fingers. I didn't want her to leave.

"I am glad you were not invisible," she said, her tone still soft and teasing. "I would have looked utterly ridiculous dancing alone."

She had no idea how her words effected me, how grateful I was to be seen and heard, if only for an evening. I forced a smile and turned to face her, our hands still joined.

Her delicate grasp managed to both stir and settle me. The sensation terrified me, yet left me wanting more. I couldn't understand how the mere warmth of her grasp sent butterflies through my stomach and a tingle at the tips of my fingers. She was much more than a girl; she was an angel.

"Thank you," she said, offering a curtsy. Her movements were fluid and graceful, the perfect swan.

I swallowed hard and nodded, wondering if my performance would match hers. "Thank you as well," I replied awkwardly as I released her hand and bowed. Stepping back, I clasped my trembling hands at the base of my spine and looked away.

"I will see you in the morning," she said cheerfully.

My gaze snapped up to meet hers. By the light of day, the illusions would dissipate like fog, her image of me clear. She would know I was a ruined form, understand why I was met with cruelty. The night would be forever changed—in her memory as well as mine.

"You won't run off in the middle of the night?" she asked warily. "I will see you again, won't I?"

"Run off?" my uncle chimed in. "No, no, of course not, my dear. Your mother promised the finest breakfast in Northern France."

Amelie appeared skeptical, but she nodded and stifled a yawn. "We will stuff you like a pig," she promised.

If dessert was any indication of the food quality, I knew leaving in the middle of the night would be a difficult decision. Despite my trepidation of being viewed at the table like a monstrous beast, my mouth watered with the prospects of being stuffed like a pig.

"I do believe you have found his second love, Mademoiselle," my uncle said with a chuckle as he touched my elbow and ushered me toward the inn. I realized I had stood staring at her. "Music and food," he said with a wink at me. "The joys of his heart."

Amelie and her mother retired for the night and I walked through the darkness with my uncle, the sounds of the village celebration fading into the night.

"What will I tell them?" I asked nervously once we were out of earshot.

"I beg your pardon?"

"Of myself," I replied, agitated by the possibilities surrounding me and the limitations always holding me down.

He looked me over, his eyes narrowed. "Of your mask?" he questioned.

"Yes," I answered shamefully.

He put his arm around me and inhaled. "You cannot help it if you were burned in a fire your drunken father started," he said. "You were very fortunate I pulled you from the flames. The physician, as you know, was not certain you would survive."

I frowned in response to his dictated story. "But I did."

"Indeed you did," he said, his voice rich and dignified. "God spared you for a purpose."

There he was wrong, but I made no reply. I had not been fashioned in God's likeness and I doubted I served any purpose.

"You have great talent, my son, great talent and a good soul," he said as we approached the inn. "Too many men are given handsome features and not an ounce of talent or purpose in this world, save to serve themselves."

"Such as my father," I said.

Two men sat at the entrance smoking pipes. They nodded and continued their conversation, paying us little heed.

My uncle paused and nodded. "I will not ruin this night by speaking of him."

I lowered my gaze. Now that I had tasted kindness and seen a glimmer of friendship, I craved more. Now that I had experienced the feelings evoked by a young woman, I hated the man who had sired me and the woman who had turned me away.

They were cruel, heartless monsters, deformed and scarred from within.

"You look upset, Erik," Uncle Alak said.

"Did he survive the fire?" I asked suddenly, avoiding his gaze. "The one he started? The one in which I nearly died?"

He looked me over carefully, remorse in his gaze. "What do you think?" he asked.

"No," I said without considering his question. "No, he did not."


	44. JeanMarcus

Giver44

We said very little as we dressed and climbed into narrow, uncomfortable beds at the Inn of Lavre. I knew my uncle was disappointed in my answer, but I didn't regret my words.

The room was small, the fabric wallpaper dark, but it was warm and dry. Sleeping indoors with a real bed and blanket seemed a foreign luxury.

I twisted on my side, watching as my uncle stretch his long, thin arms over his head. He yawned before he climbed into the bed across from mine and turned away from me. He mumbled a goodnight under his breath, turned down the lamp, and literally fell asleep moments after he pulled the blanket up to his chin.

My arm hurt where Girl had bitten me, my head aching once again from the blow to the back of my skull. While my uncle snored in his sleep, tears pricked the backs of my eyes and slid hot and fat down my cheeks.

I buried my face in my pillow and held by breath, overwhelmed by my fluctuating emotions.

I wanted a man dead—and that man was my father. Earlier in the day, when Girl had been brutally killed, I wanted many men—many strangers—dead for their callous actions.

And then, in the midst of my hatred, I had found peace and comfort. I desperately wanted the feeling of acceptance I'd encountered with Amelie. The swell of loneliness and hatred ate away at me, left me trembling with apathy. My time with her had ended. I mourned the loss of a relationship that would never exist outside of this night.

I wanted to live in this peaceful place forever, roam the fields of wheat and barley, stroll through the vineyards heavy with the scent of wine. I wanted each night to be a celebration with music, dancing, and food.

To hell with reality; I wanted to live under false pretenses in my own conjured perfection.

As much as I desired to stay awake and savor the music still playing in my head, the warmth lingering from Amelie's hand in mine, sleep eventually took me.

Nightmares of my father stayed far away, and when I woke to sunlight cutting through the room, I wondered if I had somehow succeeded in wishing him dead.

Several times I woke to laughter or voices in the distance, but exhaustion kept me in bed a while longer. My uncle continued to snore and talk in his sleep. _Why, that is far too much to pay for a pig! Joshua, listen to your mother. Storm coming in fast._

Through the open windows I heard children playing and men working. The smell of bread wafted into the room and forced me from bed. Stomach growling, I dressed and put on my shoes.

"What time is it?" my uncle groaned as he turned onto his back, squinting as he faced the window.

"Ten, I think," I answered. I hadn't paid much attention to the church bells in the distance.

"Ten?" He sat up at once. "Ah, my son, you should not have allowed an old man to sleep this late."

"I wasn't up either," I reminded him.

"Well, we will be fortunate if breakfast is waiting for us," he said.

While he dressed, I stood at a distance and watched unfamiliar people go about their lives. No one seemed to notice me, for which I was grateful.

Lavre was insignificant in size with its group of stone houses gathered together and its town square where the festivities had been held. I could see the open space still decorated with streamers and littered with refuse from the previous night. Several children, under the direction of their mothers, gathered the trash and tossed it into sacks they then hauled away. They groaned and carried on, dragging their feet and balking at their duties.

My heart stuttered as I searched for Amelie, but there were no familiar faces on the street.

"I'll shave and we will be on our way to a meal like no other," my uncle assured me.

Shaving took him an eternity. I sat hunched over on the edge of the bed and listened to him whistle while he shaved down the hall. Arms crossed, I tapped my foot and sulked until he returned and told me to make haste.

"Me?" I asked incredulously.

He smiled back. "You aren't even on your feet," he said with a chuckle as he walked smoothly from the room and left me dashing after him.

Once I caught up with him, I dashed out the door and waited outside the Inn, my stomach growling. I sat impatiently on a stone bench while he settled the payment for the room, each minute an eternity of endless hunger.

Children paused when they noticed me seated beneath a young tree with the last of its light pink petals dropping to the ground. They looked at me with familiarity in their gazes, then immediately stared at the mask.

What had once been part of a costume was now out of place. They lingered a moment, stared at the oddity before them.

"What are you doing?" one of the boys much younger than me asked. "The festival is over."

Rather than speak, I turned away and studied the flowers blooming in the planters against the building, hoping silence would drive them away.

"Why is he still in his mask?" I heard someone say.

"He won't answer," the boy said.

"Why not?" a girl asked.

"He's passing through. No telling with a stranger," another answered.

_I hide my face because I was burned in a terrible fire and my father is dead_. Over and over I repeated the words I refused to speak. My heart thudded, nerves infused with dread.

"Did you sleep well?"

Amelie's voice immediately caught my attention and I turned as she trotted toward me. Her smile wavered, her pace slowing once I faced her. Though she tried to hide her trepidation, I noticed she hesitated once she stood no more than five paces away.

"I thought you had left," she said breathlessly. "You had me worried."

The sincerity in her voice took me by surprise. I had expected her to retreat when she saw the mask.

She had more courage than I had thought.

"My uncle…my father," I corrected myself. "He is not feeling well."

"My mother will remedy that," she promised. "How are you feeling?"

"Hungry," I answered.

She held my gaze a moment, searching for the truth. "Not for long," she said at last.

A moment later my uncle appeared and Amelie escorted us toward her home nestled amongst many other small, stone houses that looked no different. Her steps were filled with excitement and forced us to trot after her.

The rose bush I had seen the previous night was well past bloom, the flowers losing their petals or not yet budding. One bud toward the top, heavy and leaning toward the ground, was just starting to open, its velvet petals dangerously close to the thorns. I stared at the flower a moment before Amelie brushed the bush away and ushered us inside.

My uncle inhaled and drew my attention away from the roses. "Do you smell that, my boy?"

I nodded and followed behind Amelie and my uncle, drawn to the promise of food.

We were greeted by a man not many years older than me with blond hair and a large nose. He stood with his arms crossed and a hardened look on his face in a sparsely finished room. I offered little more than a nervous smile before turning away.

"Who is this?" he asked coldly.

"Jean-Marcus, do not be rude," Amelie admonished.

"He is rude for covering his face in our home. Is he a thief? A murderer on the run?" he questioned, his gaze drawn to me.

"Neither, sir," I answered meekly.

"Where is Marie?" he asked. "Has anyone seen her since _his_ arrival?"

Madame Batiste entered the room and untied her apron. "What is all this?" she asked as she eyed her son.

"I would ask you the same, Mother," Jean-Marcus shot back.

She shooed him from the room with a wave of her hand, but he lingered still. "After what happened to Father, you allow strangers in this home," he spit out.

"I allow a good man and his son to take their breakfast with us," Madame Batiste corrected.

"Three women alone?" he asked bitterly. "With a boy hiding behind a mask? What is wrong with him? What plagues him? Disease?"

"Stop this," Madame Batiste warned.

"Where is Marie? Has anyone seen her?" He grunted and smoothed his hair back, his attention returning to me. "What is it you hide? What wickedness?"

"A fire," I said suddenly. All eyes turned toward me and I paused. "My father is dead. My uncle is my caretaker now."

Now that I said the words again, my tone had changed. Anger had left my voice, replaced by remorse.

No one spoke. My uncle put his arm around me and nodded. "Madame, we thank you for your offer, however, we must be on our way. I am afraid the hour is later than I expected."

Jean-Marcus looked satisfied at our departure, but Amelie came toward me and shook her head. "Mother made food for you," she said.

"Food we cannot spare," her brother argued.

"We have paid for our meal," Uncle Alak said. He nodded toward a small table beside a chair. Beside a bible and a clay mug were several gold coins.

I hadn't seen him move to place payment on the table and apparently neither had anyone else. They collectively gasped before Jean-Marcus stormed toward the table and swiped one of the coins up in his large hand. He looked skeptically at my uncle as he bit the metal as though he expected we left gold-painted wood.

"You would eat for a month with this," he said to himself. At once he placed the coins down and shot a look toward my uncle. "And what else would you purchase with this sum?"

His gaze turned toward Amelie, who blushed and returned toward her mother's side.

"Feed for the animal we must leave behind," my uncle replied smoothly, mustering greater calm than I would have offered. "I trust your sister has already asked?"

My breath hitched. Moon's fate hung in the balance—though I didn't much like the thought of her staying with Jean-Marcus. I feared what he would do with such a temper.

"She has," he said vaguely, irritation still evident in his voice. "Several times."

I risked a glance in her direction and she smiled back at me, her expression devious as though she wished to conspire on Moon's behalf.

"Will you accept and care for her until Erik may return to claim her?" my uncle asked.

Jean-Marcus looked down at the shining gold coins and sighed. "How long?" he questioned.

"Two months," my uncle answered. "No more than that."

As much as I wished to feel relief, I turned to look at him and wondered if he would survive another two months.

"I will accept," Jean-Marcus said, though his voice lacked emotion. He looked at the money in his palm with greed in his eyes.

"Will you take care of her properly?" I asked.

He furrowed his brow, clearly surprised I had addressed him. "My sister will be her caretaker, as was our agreement."

A shuddering breath left my lungs and I smiled back at Amelie, grateful for her persistence and her kindness. Moon would be in good hands.

"I fed her breakfast," she informed me. "Now to feed you as well."

Her brother said nothing as Madame Batiste escorted us into the dining room. Jean-Marcus watched us trudge through the house, his gaze fixed on me until we passed from sight. I had seen the look in his eyes many times in my father's hardened stares. His expression made me tense, wary of his presence.

Madame Batiste would not allow me a moment to return to my misery. She immediately placed her hands on my shoulders and forced me into my seat before she began her culinary assault.

Once food was piled onto my plate and I had a chance to look around, I realized this was the second time I had ever stepped foot into another person's home. My own parents had not allowed me to sit with them or enjoy a meal in their company, though my uncle had invited me into his home.

I took a deep breath, preparing myself for an unparalleled delight. Amelie took her seat across from me and clasped her hands as she unabashedly stared as though waiting for my approval.

Bread, jam, fresh berries, eggs scrambled with vegetables and a modest, salty slice of ham filled my plate.

"Would you say grace first?" Madame Batiste asked my uncle.

He obliged, though I didn't hear a word of what he said. My attention was focused solely on the food. Like a starved dog, I reached for my fork the moment I was told eating was permissible. Greedily I took several bites, then realized how savage I must have seemed and sat back.

With every bite, I convinced myself this was a meal fit for kings. Each flavor rolled onto my tongue, each bite met with a nod of approval. Madame Batiste looked on, appearing proud of her cooking.

"You must miss your mother's cooking," she said as she watched me.

Deep inside I ached, but I forced a nod. "I do," I said quietly. I missed more of her than anyone would ever know. I longed for the acceptance only a mother could give to a child, the compassion I had seen Madame Batiste give so freely not only to her daughter, but to me as well.

All too swiftly I emptied my plate, and despite Madame Batiste offering to refill each inch with more food, I declined. My stomach hurt from eating so fast, a terrible yet pleasurable feeling.

"Did you like the food?" Amelie asked, as though there was any need to question.

"Every bite," I replied.

"I made the berries," she teased.

Her words made me chuckle. "Every last one?" I asked.

She smiled back and nodded. "You don't believe me?"

"I would believe anything you said," I answered.

Our eyes met briefly before I looked away. Somehow, despite how full I felt, butterflies still managed to flutter through my insides. She made me feel like no one else.

"Amelie, quit your teasing," her mother warned with a playful wag of her finger. "You've embarrassed him."

She pursed her lips and looked at me from the corner of her eye. "Yes, mother," she said reluctantly.

"Your kindness has touched the lives and hearts of two very weary travelers," my uncle said as he finished his tea.

"Where are you headed?" Madame Batiste questioned while she stood with a towel in one hand and prepared to clear the table. Amelie scurried around her and gathered up my uncle's empty plate while I reached for my own.

While her mother spoke to my uncle, I followed Amelie out of the dining area and out the back door where an iron tub filled with soapy water awaited.

"You'll leave tonight?" she asked as she cleaned and gave me the duty of drying dishes. We sat on our knees, her arm brushing against mine.

"Yes," I answered, attempting to hide the dread in my voice.

"Where?" she asked without meeting my eye.

"To my cousin's home," I answered. I had never voiced the destination aloud, and now that I had said the words, I felt strange. My own family had rejected me, though my uncle seemed certain his son would treat me differently.

"How far from here?" she asked.

"Paris," I answered.

"Do you think it's beautiful there?"

"There is music, theater, plenty of shops and places to eat…Paris is more than beauty," I replied.

"You've been there already?" she asked, sounding quite interested.

I shook my head. "My uncle told me," I answered. He had compiled a list of places he wanted his son to show me.

"Sounds better than here," she said glumly.

"I would give anything to stay here," I said quickly.

She giggled to herself. "There is nothing here but sheep and orchards," she complained.

"There's you," I added.

She gasped and covered her mouth as she giggled. Her response alarmed me and I rolled to my feet.

"I meant it as a compliment," I said, expecting to defend myself.

"I know," she said as she gathered the clean dishes onto a tray and prepared to return them inside.

She sighed, frustrating me in more ways than I could describe.

"What's the matter?" she asked.

"You are very difficult to speak to," I replied as I shifted my weight. "I find it…highly irritating."

"Do you?" she asked, obviously realizing the effect she had on me. She handed me the tray filled with dishes and I prayed my trembling hands would hold steady a moment longer.

"Boys never speak to me," she said, though I couldn't quite tell if she found this disappointing. "My brother says it's because I chatter too much, like a bird."

"I think you speak the correct amount," I replied as though I had spoken the most magnificent complement I could offer.

She smiled and searched my face, which made me suddenly uncomfortable.

Before she could say another word, her brother appeared at the door and stared through me, his light eyes filled with an expression I knew well—loathing.

I had done nothing to earn his disapproval. I hadn't touched his sister nor spoken out of turn or inappropriately. Time and again I was met with unexplained hatred or anger, which had never seemed so magnified as it did in that moment.

Amelie had been kind and accepting, her mother understanding and warm. Marie, considering our limited conversation, had seemed indifferent.

Jean-Marcus, however, looked at me with insatiable hatred. I didn't understand how he could pass judgment so easily when his mother and younger sister stood beside him. I had never understood thoughtless, yet somehow calculated hatred.

There were many nights I had stirred my father's temper, stoked his rage by escaping or sneaking into their home. Still, there were many more when I simply sat alone and peered through the cellar bars at the passing clouds or the moon, when the sound of his footsteps rose the hairs at the back of my neck and balled my hands into fists.

He hated me because I was an imperfect part of him.

Jean-Marcus had no personal reason to loathe me, yet he looked at me with judgment in his pale eyes. His hatred was as evident as my father's disapproval, and I wondered what else they shared in common, if his hand would carry the weight and cruelty of the first man who had shown me discontent.

I followed behind Amelie, my eyes cast down as we trudged past her brother in respectful silence. Before I walked through the door, he grabbed me by the arm and shoved me back.

The momentum made me stumble and I fell onto the dirt. The dishes toppled from the tray, shattering as they hit the ground, a spray of chaos surrounding me.

Instantly my hand shot up to my face, my only concern the mask I wore. He would not forgive my appearance.

"What is it you hide?" he seethed as he marched toward me.

He gave me no moment to respond, no fraction of a second to even breathe. I sat staring up at him as he loomed over me and snatched me up by my shirt.


	45. Her Brother's Rage

OMG! I totally forgot to upload this one. My apologies! I've had this finished for weeks now! Consider this a bonus day with two chapters back to back. Man, in 7 years you'd think I'd learn how to use this ff stuff! Doh!

Giver45

Amelie shrieked as her brother reached down and grabbed me by the shirt. He hauled me to my feet, his mouth twisted and teeth gritted as he looked ready to throw me onto my back again.

He breathed hard in my face, hot and foul-smelling. I wrinkled my nose but didn't turn away. I refused to turn away, no matter how he issued my punishment.

"What do you want with my sister?" he shouted in my face.

"Nothing," I answered plainly, attempting to hide my fear.

He shook me violently and I wrapped my hands around his wrists to steady myself. The look in his eyes was murderous, his hands trembling with rage.

"What have you taken from her already?"

"I am no thief."

"You think she gives into you willingly?" he asked.

I stared back at him. "She gave me nothing," I protested.

"You would not value her," he said as he pulled me closer. "You deserve nothing from any woman."

Despite not knowing what he meant, I knew his words were intended as a great insult. We stood in such close proximity that I couldn't turn away from him. Shamefully I lowered my gaze and hoped he would tire of his ridicule and step away, bored by my complacency.

His mouth twisted, his gaze flickering from the right side of my face to the left. I could see his thoughts behind his gaze, his desire to see for himself what I hid behind a mask.

"Jean-Marcus," Amelie pleaded. She apparently knew as well what he wanted.

"You're hypnotized!" he shouted at her. "Bewitched!"

"No, I'm neither," she protested. She grabbed him by the back of the shirt, but he wriggled her off as though she were a fly to be swatted away. "I'm frightened."

"I will not let him harm you," he assured her.

Again she reached for him, but he elbowed her away, his teeth gritted and gaze fixed on me. I kept my hands around his wrists, twisting and writhing in order to prevent him from grabbing the mask.

"I'm not afraid of him!" she yelled. "I'm afraid of you."

He froze and glared at her from over his shoulder. "Get inside. Now."

She stayed her ground, her posture rigid. "No," she said firmly. She looked from him to me, though I wasn't sure if she gazed at me with loyalty or turned from her brother in stubbornness.

"Amelie," he warned.

"Leave him alone!" she screamed, her voice shrill, cutting through the otherwise quiet late morning. The sound made me cringe.

He glanced back at her one last time. "Fine," he said through his teeth. He turned toward me, his eyes narrowed and fixed on mine.

I knew his expression well, the pause before the first strike. There was hunger in his gaze, a desire to undo me. No matter what I did, he had made up his mind.

With a cruel smile, he jabbed his joined hands toward me and punched me in the throat. I would have stumbled if not for his tight grip on my shirt.

My throat hurt, the breath I desperately needed refusing to move to my lungs. I blinked several times, my eyes watering and lips uselessly moving as I gasped. I felt as though I would suffocate.

He wrenched me forward and clubbed me between the shoulder blades, forcing the air out of my lungs. The blow dazed me and I coughed, struggling for a breath to my burning lungs.

The back door swung open, but my eyes were too blurry and tear-filled to focus.

"Monsieur Batiste," I heard my uncle shout sternly. "Release him. Now."

"As you wish," he replied coldly as he shoved me away. "My sincerest pleasure, Monsieur."

"My God," Madame Batiste gasped. "What in God's name are you doing to him?"

Amelie began to cry. I heard her kicking at the dirt and assumed her brother held her back from me. Most people wanted to keep their distance; she was making an attempt to stay near me—and he would hurt her for her undue loyalty.

"Stop," I begged, my voice hoarse. "Please stop."

I blinked rapidly until they came into focus. At last my throat opened enough to suck in a wild, desperate breath. I stepped back, thumping my fist against my chest until I felt as though I would retch.

"What is he?" Jean Marcus questioned. He turned his head to the side, his hardened gaze once again meeting my eye.

"He is my nephew," my uncle answered. "And he has been through more than his fair share of hardships. You will not lay a hand on him again," he boomed.

Jean-Marcus never looked away from me. He shuffled over the dirt and stone walkway, moved slowly to my left side.

"Leave him alone," his mother demanded. "You will not disrespect your father's house."

He offered a cruel, devious grin while he continued to stalk toward me. I knew what he wanted, but I realized his intentions too late. I stepped back and bumped into Amelie, who wrapped her small hands around my shoulders. Her fingers dug into my flesh, her whimpers enough to draw my attention away from her brother.

I turned, wanting to plead with her to walk away from me, afraid she would be harmed in the scuffle. If she were thrown to the ground or injured, I would not forgive myself.

"Jean-Marcus," Amelie said through her tears. "Please just leave him alone."

"He's just a boy," his mother said, her voice trembling. "Let him walk away."

"Walk away?" Jean-Marcus scoffed. "Roam free? Unchecked?"

"Erik," my uncle commanded. "Come here."

I hesitated, waited for my path to be blocked or for Jean-Marcus to once again hit me in the throat. Standing at a distance from Madame Batiste and my uncle I felt as though he would effectively cull me from the rest.

He would challenge me, dare me to make a move. Steeling my nerves, I took a step forward, determined to show no fear despite my trembling hands and racing heart.

I had barely taken more than a couple paces when I froze. From the edge of my vision I saw him lunge toward me. The movement made me snap my eyes shut, expecting a blow to the side of the head. Instead, his nails scratched my chin and neck and the right side of my face as he raked his fingers across my bare, exposed flesh.

My mask was hurtled through the air and landed out of reach. With a sharp inhale, I fell to my knees, my hand over my face as I dove for the covering.

Quick as a cat, Jean-Marcus kicked the mask farther from my reach. On hands and knees, reduced to a beast, I crawled away in pursuit, desperate for my only protection.

Both Amelie and her mother screamed; Amelie in fear as I scrambled away, her mother's shriek in horror of what had transpired. At first I thought she had seen my face, but I heard her shout at her son and knew she raised her voice only at him. In my desperation, I had no idea what anyone said or did around me.

"That's right," Jean-Marcus taunted as he kicked dirt and rubble at my back. "Fetch it, just like a dog."

"Enough!" my uncle bellowed.

His words, though not directed at me, still gave me pause. With my hand outstretched, I froze and swallowed hard. The incident left me trembling, afraid and enraged. My stomach churned, bile rising in my throat.

"What is this hostility?" my uncle seethed. "What is this senseless hatred toward this boy?"

"A boy?" Jean-Marcus scoffed. "Is that what you believe?"

"Do not question the humanity of a child who does not fight back," my uncle admonished. His voice took on an entity of its own, power beyond comprehension in a dying man. I envied the strength he possessed despite his physical weakness.

Amelie sank to her knees before me and sobbed, her breaths harsh and uncontrolled. She spoke quietly, her voice uneven, words forced from her lips between harsh sobs. Over and over she apologized to me and asked for forgiveness. I dared to look at her between my parted fingers, to search her face and see the horror in her eyes.

She reached out to me, my mask scuffed and dirty, but held tenderly in her hand. Without a word, she pushed the covering into my grasp.

"I don't want him near my sisters," Jean-Marcus seethed. "Nowhere near them, do you hear me?"

Heavy footsteps rounded the side of the house and I shuddered, expecting more people had arrived to witness my humiliation. On my knees, with trembling hands, I finally fit my mask into place.

"What happened?" I heard Marie gasp.

I sighed, relieved a stranger hadn't stumbled upon me. Despite her brother's protest, Marie slipped past him and knelt at my side. She placed her hand on the center of my back and I cringed, recoiling from her touch.

"You look frightened half to death," Marie said quietly. She stared at my neck where her brother had raked his nails across my flesh and frowned. "Jesus, have mercy."

There would be no mercy for me. Despite her good intentions, there would always be more suffering than redemption. I tired of attempting to obtain mercy when cruelty was so freely offered.

"What happened to you?" Marie asked. She turned and searched my eyes, then stared at my neck. Her expression changed and I knew she studied the overlay of new, reddened marks over deep bruises. "Who did this to you?"

Ashamed, I looked away from her.

"Amelie?" Marie prompted.

"Jean-Marcus," Amelie mumbled.

"My brother did this to you?" she questioned, leaning toward me in order to garner my attention. Her expression hardened and she turned from me, glaring at her brother. "You did this to him? Why?"

"Get him out of here," Jean-Marcus ordered.

"He is a boy," Marie argued. "He did not kill Father."

"Do you know what he's capable of?" her brother shot back.

"What are you capable of doing, Jean-Marcus?" Marie questioned.

"Defending my family," he replied sharply.

"From what?" she challenged, her voice a decibel higher, sharper than before.

"From him."

"No," she said with a shake of her head. She kept her hand on the center of my back and dragged her fingers up and down my spine. "This was not defense. This was an attack."

I had no desire for them to argue over me. Numb inside and out, I stumbled to my feet and started toward the small, dilapidated barn where Moon was presumably kept. My stomach churned, but I kept my chin up and eyes focused on the path ahead, too afraid to glance back.

More than anything, I wanted to disappear. I felt weak and defeated, exposed and raw. I wished we had stolen away in the night. Choking back tears became nearly impossible, but I held my breath until I once again succeeded in snuffing out worthless emotion.

The barn had only three stalls, only one of which was occupied. I unlatched the gate, walked into Moon's pen, and knotted my fingers in her freshly combed mane. She snorted, her tail swishing back and forth as flies buzzed around her.

She wouldn't be safe there. Her fate, I feared, mirrored mine.

Footsteps crunched over straw and pebbles, but I didn't bother to turn. Still unable to catch her breath, I had expected Amelie to follow me.

"You don't want to leave her here," Amelie sniffled.

Without looking at her, I shook my head.

"What will you do with her?"

Forethought wasn't one of my strengths. Angered by her question, I whipped around, fully prepared to tell her my intentions were none of her concern.

She had stepped closer to me, however, her movements slow and careful. In silence she stood beside me and patted Moon's neck, her actions gentle, her expression pensive.

"Erik?" she questioned softly.

"I did nothing to stoke his anger," I whispered. My voice refused to cooperate. Anger faded, my shoulders dropped, and my throat turned painfully tight.

The slightest taste of kindness made the cruelty I had faced all the more bitter. I wasn't sure if I should be angry, ashamed, or indifferent to his treatment. Deep inside, I longed to feel nothing at all.

"He's not normally like that," she answered, her tone still soft and trembling.

"What is he normally like?" I asked.

"He used to have a wonderful sense of humor, he was gentle, kind…" She paused and waited for me to look her in the eye. "He worries too much now."

"Because you and your sister are his responsibility," I said as I looked away from her.

From the corner of my eye I saw her cross her arms. "We weren't given a choice."

Neither was I.

Amelie turned and looked at me suddenly, which made me realize I had spoken aloud. Both of us stood in silence while the flies buzzed around the stable.

"You are acting like a fool," I heard Marie shout at her brother as they stood in the yard. She picked up shards of the broken dishes and tossed them into a bucket while her brother looked on.

"The three of you left alone are far too trusting," her brother argued. "Like damned sheep inviting the wolf into the pasture."

I could see them both through the wooden boards as they glared at one another. Marie finished cleaning up the mess I had made and stood with her hands on her hips while Jean-Marcus had his arms tightly crossed over his chest.

"Oh, quiet down," Marie snapped.

"Listen to me—"

"No, you listen to me, Jean-Marcus," she said as she jabbed her finger at his chest. "Do you honestly think if he wished to harm Amelie he would have waited until morning?"

Her brother fumed in silence, his hardened gaze fixed on the ground.

"Do you?" she challenged.

"How would I know what he would do?" he grumbled.

"Ah, how would you indeed?"

He started toward her and I noticed my uncle standing behind him. With his passive expression and stance, I wondered how he could stay so calm at the wayside rather than defending me.

"You should have seen her," Marie said before her brother could speak. "For the first time in weeks, she seemed happy."

"Because of the festival," Jean-Marcus reasoned.

Marie shook her head. "Because she had someone to talk to," she said. "Someone her own age."

"There are more than enough girls and boys her age right here," Jean-Marcus said, his words thick with irritation.

"Why can't you be happy for Amelie? You know how difficult she's taken his death."

I risked a glance in Amelie's direction and saw her look away. Unshed tears clouded her eyes, which she attempted to blink away before she turned from me.

She was grief-stricken still whereas I had hoped my father dead. When I studied her, I wanted to see her happy, smiling and laughing as she had done the previous night. I wondered how Monsieur Batiste had treated his youngest daughter, if he spoke softly to her and with kindness. I couldn't bear to think of someone so perfect ever being hurt, either verbally or with a heavy hand.

I wondered what sort of man raised two daughters who showed compassion to a stranger and a son fueled by rage for what he didn't know.

"We _all_ took Father's death hard," Jean-Marcus retorted.

"And we all show our grief differently," Marie replied. She shook her head. "You should have seen her dance, Jean-Marcus, you should have seen her dance and act like a girl again."

He threw his hands in the air and waved off her words. "I don't want her anywhere near that _thing_...that _monster_. Did you see his face?"

Marie caught him by the arm and yanked him forward. "If you had heard him play, if you had seen his skill, you would think differently. Beauty does not come from monsters. He has suffered, we have all suffered. Show some pity, Jean-Marcus, show a bit of decency and respect."

"I want him gone," Jean-Marcus warned as he ripped his arm from his sister's grasp.

"He will be soon enough," Marie replied sadly. "And then you will need to explain to your sister why you were so cruel to him, to a friend of hers."

"I do not owe her any explanation," he said sharply.

Marie shrugged and turned away. "What would Father have said?"

"Nothing," he said firmly. "He would not have allowed his daughter near someone like that."

"Like what?" Marie questioned. She looked over her shoulder at him and scowled.

Before he could answer, Madame Batiste appeared in the doorway and motioned to her son. "You will allow them to leave here in peace," she said firmly. "Whether they leave in an hour or by sunset, I will not allow you to disgrace this house with your discourtesy."

"Discourtesy," he scowled.

"You know very well your father would not have turned away a man and his adopted son," Madame said, her voice trembling with either emotion or rage.

"And you wonder what killed him?" Jean-Marcus replied. "Perhaps too much charity and trust." His words garnered a gasp of disgust from Madame Batiste and Marie. When he turned away, I saw him shake his head and work his jaw. He stared toward the barn where I stood beside Amelie in shadows.

I swore he looked me dead in the eye, his expression cold and piercing. "Nothing but a damned monster from hell," he seethed.

Amelie stood closer to me and placed her hand on my arm. I turned toward her just as she wiped the tears from her eyes.

"I don't care what he says. I don't see a monster," she whispered.

As much as I wanted to believe her words, I knew the monster existed; she had merely not witnessed the beast. Her brother had not seen the devil he taunted-at least not yet.

With any luck, I could keep the monster hidden a while longer.


	46. Amelie's Gift

This is the first chapter in a long time that made me a little teary-eyed. I love young Kire. Please review!

Also, I uploaded these out of order, which means reviews were lost. Sorry about that! I guess I will never learn how to do these uploads. Sigh!

Giver46

The perfect fantasy had come to an abrupt and almost violent end. Other than minor scratches and bruises, I had somehow managed to leave otherwise unscathed, at least physically.

I turned awkwardly away from Amelie and attempted to regroup. Normally I was at least allowed to lick my wounds in solitude, but I knew she stared at me and wished to provide comfort.

More than my own pain, I feared what would happen to her if she disobeyed her brother.

"You should leave," I said brusquely.

She remained quiet for a long moment, and though I had not heard her footsteps, I wanted to believe she had walked away from me, light and delicate as an angel leaving no trace behind. Deep inside, however, I didn't want to be alone and I secretly hoped she would disobey and stay a moment longer.

"Why?" she asked at last, her voice the perfect tone of innocence.

_Because I fear your brother will hurt you. Because I fear what you will see when I turn and face you. Because I fear what I truly am._

"You are not…" _Needed a moment longer_, I wanted to say, but I couldn't bring myself to speak so harshly. Still more a boy than a man, I was not yet completely jaded.

"Not what?" she asked. I could hear the concern in her voice.

"Required to stay," I answered lamely.

"My father told me kindness is not a requirement, but it's still a necessity."

"Your brother feels differently," I muttered.

She leaned against the fence and briefly grasped my wrist. "He is only one person," she reminded me before she let go.

But he was one person whose ideas and fears represented a lifetime. Amelie, her mother, and even her sister had been the exception.

"Here," she said. When I met her eye, she took my hand and pried my fingers apart. "Loosen your fist," she said with a chuckle.

I immediately obeyed her request and felt her place something cool and smooth into my palm. I glanced down at an ivory hair comb with a dove carved along the spine.

"What is this?" I asked.

"A gift," she answered. "So you will always remember me."

I would never forget her, not for a lifetime. There would be a time when her memory would save me and many long years where I wished I could thank her for her kindness and acceptance, no matter how brief. I wished I had remembered her words more often; that kindness was not a requirement, yet still a necessity.

"You don't need to give me a gift," I said, embarrassed by her offer. Not even my own mother had given me a gift, not in the thirteen years I had lived beneath her house. The thought made me shudder.

"Isn't that the wonderful part about gifts?" she asked with a warm smile. "They are always given freely."

"I don't have anything to give you in return," I said, ashamed for accepting her gracious present.

Her smile brightened. "When you reach Paris and return here for Moon, you can bring me a new one," she suggested. "Something the girls in Paris would wear."

I nodded readily. "Yes," I said. "Yes, of course."

Her brother would view me differently when I returned from Paris and brought his sister a beautiful gift. They would all look at me differently when I played the newest, most popular pieces of music and when I wrote my own. I would no longer be an unwanted, discarded boy; I would be an artist and musician from Paris.

"I'll be more fashionable than Marie." She grinned back at me, her voice soft as though the words exchanged between us were a secret. She stepped closer. "We should return," she suggested. "They'll wonder where we are."

I reluctantly nodded and looked at Moon, who swished her tail and seemed indifferent to me. I gave her one last pat on the back and sighed, hoping she would be safe and well cared for in my absence.

At last I tucked the comb into my pocket and followed her out of the stable. My uncle sat alone in the yard smoking a pipe while several chickens pecked at the dirt. He nodded when he saw us but offered no words.

I looked at him and hesitated. "Is it time to leave?" I asked.

"Not quite yet," he answered. He blew a ring of smoke and sat up straighter. "You should thank Madame Batiste for her hospitality."

Before I could ask, he nodded toward the backdoor. Amelie mumbled that she had chores to finish and would return soon. I dreaded her leaving my side as I had no desire to be away from her yet—and I could see her brother sitting on a stool with his arms crossed over his wide chest.

With my heart beating wildly, I looked to my uncle for guidance.

"He will not harm you," he said without meeting my eye.

My throat continued to throb, my back sore where he had struck me. "How do you know?" I asked warily.

"His mother will not allow him to hurt you."

I wasn't sure how she could prevent him considering he seemed twice as big and ten times as strong. I feared as soon as I entered he would climb to his feet, storm toward me, and smash in my skull.

"Go on," my uncle prompted.

Without argument, I trudged through the doorway and stood silent as a mouse, waiting for her to turn and face me.

"If you knew what had happened to him, you would take pity on that boy," I overheard Madame say to him. "Your father never once raised a hand at you, but he was not so fortunate. You must remember there is always someone in the world who has suffered more than you, Jean-Marcus, and you are not to judge them based solely on what you see with your eyes."

Jean-Marcus noticed me lingering in the doorway and sat up straighter, his expression immediately settling into a scowl.

"Sneaky little son of a…"

"Enough!" Madame shouted as she turned on her heel and pointed a wooden spoon at her son.

He started to stand and I considered bolting out the door, but Madame held out her hand and I stayed, my leaden feet refusing to move.

"You will stay seated and hold your tongue," she ordered Jean-Marcus over her shoulder. She turned her attention toward me. "There is plenty of food left if you're hungry. When Jean-Marcus was your age, he was never full."

I didn't dare look at him now that his mother had compared the two of us. I wasn't sure if she meant her words as a form of flattery or insult toward him.

"I'm not hungry," I said quietly as I inched closer. "I just wanted to thank you."

She turned her head to the side and smiled. "Your company was most welcomed, my dear."

The way she addressed me and the kindness in her eyes made me step closer, almost desperate for motherly affection. I craved a moment of being accepted and cared for, of the nurturing I had been denied. She had no idea what she offered in a single moment, how much I had longed for compassion and tenderness.

"You have been very kind to me," I said, attempting to muster the courage to properly thank her for her hospitality and allowing me into her home.

She pulled off her apron and tossed it over a stool before she walked toward me with her arms out.

"You are always welcome here," she promised me as she placed her hands on my shoulders and pulled me closer.

Her affection overwhelmed me and I drew back, fearing what I had always been denied.

"Thank you," I said awkwardly as I stepped back.

She offered a soft smile, seemingly aware of my discomfort. "You have a spot of blood on your arm," she commented.

When I glanced down, there was more than just a spot. The wound left from Girl biting me had started to bleed again, saturated through my shirt.

"May I have a look?" she offered.

I nodded in agreement and stood very still as she approached me again.

"Here," she said as she rolled up my sleeve all the way to my shoulder. When she saw the wound, she furrowed her brow. "This is a bite."

"My dog," I answered. "She bit me on accident when someone hurt her."

She frowned and nodded. "This is infected. You must sit at once and I'll clean this for you."

Turning from me, she motioned to her son. "Don't just sit there gawking; fetch my basket. Now," she ordered, her tone strict and filled with irritation.

He glared at me briefly before climbing to his feet and storming from the kitchen. Madame Batiste continued to fret over my wounded arm. She held my hand loosely in hers and for a moment I imagined her as my mother, careful and attentive, so worried for my well-being.

Her son returned, left the basket on the floor, and returned to his corner of the room.

While she spoke of the weather, how lovely the evening had been, and how she was very happy I enjoyed her baking, she cleaned my injured arm with a soft, damp cloth. She said the cleaning agent was her own creation, a bit of this and that she'd learned from a local apothecary. Whatever she used was strong smelling and stung horribly, but I remained still.

"Once I have this wrapped, you must leave the bandages in place for a week. Do you understand?"

"Yes, I understand," I replied.

She studied the bruises around my neck and the scratches down my jaw and along my throat. "I apologize on my son's behalf," she said, glancing in his direction.

"He doesn't need to apologize," I said quickly, afraid her words would stoke his anger. "I'm not injured."

The sympathy in her gaze gave away her thoughts. She knew I was deeply hurt, not only on the outside but emotionally.

I swallowed hard and forced a smile before turning away.

"Wait," Jean-Marcus said sternly.

His stool scraped across the ground as he stood and I immediately turned to face him, bracing myself.

"What's in your pocket?" he questioned, eyeing me with suspicion. "Did your father teach you how to steal?"

"My father taught me nothing," I blurted out. My posture changed and I knew I winced as he advanced on me. Now that I had been repaired, he would destroy me again.

Once I dared to look at him, his cold expression had faltered. He backed down and lowered his gaze, his tightly clenched hands relaxing.

"She gave you her comb, didn't she?" he asked, his voice calmer and lower than I'd heard before.

I nodded slowly, afraid he would fight me for the small gift. I pulled the ivory comb from my pocket and held the beautifully carved piece tightly in my hand, preparing to hand the comb over without a fight.

Behind me, both Amelie and Marie whispered and from the corner of my eye I saw them trot into the kitchen. Surrounded by the Batiste family, I felt out of place, a spectacle to be viewed, accused of wrong.

"I gave it to him," Amelie blurted out as though she feared my reprimand.

Jean-Marcus shook his head. "You shouldn't."

"This belongs to me," she replied boldly. "Mine to give."

Her brother looked sadly at me and sighed before turning his attention back to his sister. "You are just like him in your charity," he said at last. His words lacked anger, and when I turned to look at Amelie, she smiled back.

Marie motioned me toward the door and I joined her and Amelie, who escorted me from the kitchen and into the yard.

"Your father gave you this," I said as I clutched the ivory comb in my right hand.

"For my birthday," Amelie answered.

I shook my head. "You cannot give me this."

"Why?" she asked.

I had no correct answer, only a feeling in my gut that she should keep this token from her father. She clearly loved and missed him; I didn't want to take part of him away from her.

"This is yours," I said lamely.

"My father believed in generosity and caring," she said. "He is not the comb. He's in the act of giving."

She proved a world more mature than I was for my age. For many years I considered her words, sometimes quite thoughtfully and other times in bitterness.

She offered a gift as means of remembering her father whereas I saw her actions as giving part of him away.

Marie cleared her throat when neither of us spoke.

"Your uncle said you needed new shirts," Marie said to me. "I've packed a few older ones for you. They've been repaired, but they should suffice until you reach Paris. I'm sure then these will seem like poor peasant rags once you settle into the city," she teased.

I blinked at her. Years came and went and my parents never allowed me more than a cellar. Two gifts in one day seemed indulgent. I had no idea what I had done to earn such kindness.

"Thank you," I said, overwhelmed by her generosity.

She smiled back and nodded, handing the garments wrapped in brown paper and tied with twine to me. "Travel safe," she said.

For a long moment I stood before them, the comb once again tucked safely into my pocket and the newly repaired shirts hugged against my chest.

"Will you write to me?" Amelie asked suddenly.

I nodded readily. I would have agreed to do anything for her, desperate for a way to reimburse her for her troubles.

She shifted her weight and pursed her lips. "I'll take very good care of Moon," she promised. "She'll be happy here."

The end of our friendship drew nearer and I hesitated, wanting to stay longer, to enjoy what others experienced on a daily basis. I dreaded turning from her and never seeing her face again, never hearing her soft voice directed at me. If I had known at the time what hardships awaited, I would have requested another hour of her company.

In honesty, I would have begged to stay.

Amelie stepped closer and clasped my hand. "Two months," she reminded me. "And then I'll have the most beautiful comb Paris has to offer."

I nodded. "I'm not certain I will find one to suit you," I said. She frowned and I feared she took my words as an insult. Briefly I grasped her fingers, then wiped my sweating palm on my pant leg. "None will ever match you," I stammered. "Your…beauty, I mean."

She blushed furiously and Marie draped her arm over her sister and grinned. "Ah, don Juan," she said with a laugh. "Off you go."

I looked at Amelie one last time, memorized a smile that would soon enough keep me alive. When I turned, I patted my trouser pocket to make certain I still had possession of the comb, a small part of her; a reminder that in a vast and cold world, there was still hope, even for a creature such as myself.


	47. An Angel Out of Wood

After years of working on Giver of Life, I'm happy, yet still devastated, to say this story is coming to an end in the next few weeks. With this completed, I think I may do Julia and Erik's long awaited trip to the sea shore. Kire deserves a holiday after this, what I'll eventually write about the gypsies, and Persia. Chapters 48 and 49 were so emotional for me. I hope you enjoy reading and will also review. Thanks!

Giver48

"You need to eat," Uncle Alak said as we stopped for the night, a good distance from the road. He seemed more out of breath than usual and coughed into the crook of his arm, his whole body shaking.

When he caught me staring, he turned away and looked around. I heard him clear his throat and spit into the dirt.

"So do you," I returned. "We both should." My stomach growled in response and I settled my hand over my abdomen as though I could silence the sounds of protest.

He grunted and sat on the grass before the shallow fire pit I'd dug while he rested his eyes. I worked in silence, rewarded by my ability to assist him and allow him to preserve his wavering strength.

Once we had enough walking for the day, he'd found a suitable place to stop just as the sun set in the distance, a wooded area nestled atop a hill where he said we would be able to keep watch for the night.

"You need to grow," he said firmly. He coughed again, but this time quickly recovered and took a sip of water from his canteen. "I've been done growing for many years now. My wife would say I have only to grow sideways," he said, motioning with his hands as though he was thick around the middle. His eyes twinkled when he spoke, the fondness he still felt for her evident in his playful tone.

I wondered what she would have thought of him now, his tall frame turned lean, his skin yellowed and sagging. I wondered what he'd looked like before in his youth, if I resembled him in any way.

"What was she like?" I asked suddenly.

"She was wonderful," he answered with a warm smile on his lips and wistful tone. "She deserved someone who could match her wits and kindness, but instead she had me."

I frowned at his words and looked away, wondering if she would have accepted me the same way he did.

"She always said she would stuff me like a pig," he said while he poked at the fire with a stick. "And she always kept her promises. Just as Madame Batiste filled your plate with more food than you could ever consume, my wife was the same way. She would have had you so fat you could barely move."

I smiled back at his words. Consistent meals were a rarity. Being fed enough to keep my stomach even half-full was little more than a fleeting thought. I had learned to eat slowly and savor every bite as I had no idea when the door would open and food would be offered.

We dined on bread and cheese, shared an apple and salted pork. The comb I set beside my outstretched legs and glanced at occasionally, wishing I could relive a most wonderful evening.

"How does your arm feel?" he asked as we settled in for the night.

I glanced down. "Warm," I answered, my thoughts returned to Girl and the grief I managed to keep at bay. The scar would remain, one of many I carried.

"Fevered?"

"No, just warm," I replied. Whatever herbal concoction Madame Batiste had slathered onto my arm made my flesh feel somewhat numb. "Like perhaps it has started to heal," I said hopefully.

"Good, good. How about the rest of you?" he asked as he looked me over. "You fell hard this afternoon."

"Tolerable," I answered. I had been shoved to the ground, which was much different than a mere fall.

He made a face and shook his head. "Tolerable?" he questioned. The glint in his eyes faded, replaced by remorse. "Not the word I would have used."

"I can walk still," I pointed out. "And there are not many bruises."

He met my eye and shook his head. "Not many?" he asked sadly.

I lowered my gaze, unsure of what he wanted me to say. I had hit the ground much harder in the past, been shoved down stairs and into a dirt wall.

"I'm not injured," I said defensively.

"You are not at fault." He lifted his hand as though to calm me. "My brother's heavy hand increased your pain tolerance," he said, his tone difficult to judge. "A boy your age should not have the world so heavily upon his shoulders, yet I think this has helped you survive."

I made no reply, deciding I wanted nothing from my father, not even casual mention of him. I would have done more than survive if my uncle had been my father. The thought angered me as I wanted to fall asleep and wake up a different person, an acceptable person with a family to love me.

"What is the first site you wish to see when we arrive in Paris?" he asked as he leaned back and rested his head on his rolled up pack.

"Everything," I answered a bit defiantly.

"Insatiable," he said with a chuckle as he closed his eyes. He reached into his pocket and tossed a small pocketknife toward me. "Here," he said. "Carve something."

I didn't argue or protest, though I had never worked with a knife before. I stared at the metal object in my grass, a weapon I had never used. "Carve what?"

"Whatever you want," he answered. "A monkey, a horse, a cloud," he suggested.

I grunted and examined the blade, attempting to envision such a hard, straight, unwavering line creating a figurine.

"A cloud? Out of wood? Impossible," I said, but my words were wasted as he had already fallen asleep.

Boredom never suited me well, but an opportunity to create artwork sent me in pursuit of a piece of wood. Already ideas buzzed through my mind of what I would design, a masterful collection of wooden figurines.

With a surplus of confidence and a handful of sticks, I returned to the fireside and quite proudly began to entertain myself with what I was certain could rival Michelangelo.

Hunched over the fire, I began taking small notches out of the wood. Slowly my design came to fruition, the features slowly becoming visible in my grasp. I carved faster, heedless to the nicks in my knuckles and splinters stabbing the sensitive pads of my fingers.

Out of gnarled wood, out of something discarded and left to rot, I would create beauty.

What I envisioned and what I was capable of creating, however, were two entirely different things. I blew bits of dust from the figurine and proudly examined my achievement.

Disappointment flooded my emotions as I looked over my lop-sided statue. Frustrated, I placed the knife and ruined art by my feet and sulked. I couldn't understand where I had failed or why the designs hadn't successfully transferred from my thought into what I held.

"What is it?" Uncle Alak questioned. He squinted at me out of his right eye. "Why are you muttering to yourself?"

"Nothing," I answered miserably. I hadn't realized I had been grumbling aloud over my ruined work.

He grunted. "What was it supposed to be?"

I crossed my arms and sat hunched over, wanting to forget my meager attempt at woodwork.

"Looks like a very nice troll," he said as he sat up and yawned.

"A troll?" I exclaimed as I snatched up the figurine and scowled. "I wasn't making a troll."

He shrugged. "Art is always up for interpretation," he replied, "You needn't be offended."

"I was making a statue of Amelie," I confessed.

My uncle made a valiant attempt at offering the most sympathetic look, but I caught him smiling when he turned away.

"I wanted to give this to her when I returned for Moon," I said defensively.

His expression softened. "You are very considerate and thoughtful," he said.

"But she won't like this, will she?" I asked as I looked at my worthless attempt at artwork.

"Very few are masters of any craft on the first attempt," he reminded me. "These things take time, Erik. I think she would be quite flattered. With a little more time and patience, the next one will be better."

I wasn't one for patience. I wanted the figurine to turn out perfect on the first attempt and to make the next one with ease. A pulse of anger threatened as I couldn't understand why I had so many shortcomings. I felt as though fate owed me a chance at beauty. If I could not be seen as acceptable, then I wanted to create something of worth and magnificence.

"But what about music?" I asked.

He smiled and nodded. "You have a very rare gift when music is involved," he explained. "Appreciate that you are able to hear music as few others can appreciate."

For a moment I sat in silence, not quite prepared to accept his compliment when I was still angered over my figurine.

"Have you carved wood?" I asked as I considered tossing the worthless piece of wood into the fire.

My uncle shrugged. "A handful of times," he replied.

I picked up the knife and another piece of wood and placed both items beside him. "Will you show me?"

He seemed pleased by my question and nodded. The twinkle in his eyes and the soft, welcoming smile drew me closer. I imagined working alongside my father, if my father had loved me. Despite the chill in the night air and the dread I felt looming, I found comfort in watching my uncle examine the piece of wood I had collected.

"You did a fine job collecting a nice, sturdy piece of wood to begin with," he praised as he placed his hand on my shoulder.

When he looked at me, I smiled and pretended he was my true father, a man who was strong yet still gentle and patient.

"These hands do not hold as much skill as they once did," he mumbled as he pinched the broken branch between his fingers and thumb like a crab's claw. I watched him closely, studied the scars from fishing hooks and the weathered appearance of his yellowed flesh. Each imperfection mapped out his life, told of hard work and honest labor.

He worked in silence for a while, then began to hum softly to himself as he chipped away at the wood. Each notch seemed to come away effortlessly, as though even with his maimed hands he could still make whatever he desired.

Rather than jealousy, I felt a swell of pride in watching him work. Every move I studied closely, leaning forward for a better look as he created a small figurine.

Once he finished, he blew the bits of dust off and handed the small wooden statue to me. "There," he said. "Not quite the perfect sculpture of a troll." He grinned back at me and patted my knee. "What do you think?"

"This isn't a troll." I shook my head and looked over the figurine. He'd worked with great haste, the features somewhat crude but still recognizable. The edges needed smoothed down, which I was willing to do.

"Well, that was my intention," he said.

"Trolls don't have wings."

"Perhaps my interpretation does."

His words made me laugh as I studied the figurine. "What is it really?"

"An angel," he answered. His expression sobered. "Many years ago I could have made a perfect one for you, but my health and hands no longer cooperate."

"I have never had a gift made for me until today," I replied, my voice suddenly trembling as I held the small figurine in the palm of my hand. Just as with Amelie, I had nothing to give in return. Overwhelmed by generosity and ashamed of myself for falling short, I bowed my head.

In such a brief amount of time, he knew me well and would not allow me to sit and wallow. He tossed another piece of wood to me, which I barely managed to catch.

"Your turn," he said with a nod.

"But—"

"No excuses," he interrupted sternly. "You will continue with your music and become a master. Tonight, however, I want you to learn a new skill. Try again."

Without further protest, I busied myself until I had a carving of what resembled—at least to me—a horse.

"Splendid," he praised, which was much more generous than I deserved, but his approval made me smile and appreciate what I had created.

While he packed our cooking supplies, I set up our tent, finding my eyes suddenly heavy and body sapped of strength. We put out the fire and sat beneath the moonlight and twinkling stars, the air warm and humid, the wisp of smoke disappearing and red glow of the burning logs turned to gray ash. Eventually we crawled into the tent when the bug bites became intolerable.

In the darkness, my uncle's eye sockets looked hollow, his face sharp angles like the wooden figurine he'd made. I reached toward the pack beside me and felt the comb and angel figurine nestled atop the shirts Marie had given me, comforted by their presence.

A small token made me feel like a normal boy, a child deserving of a gift and attention. I reached into the pack and held the small statue to my chest, the rough edges stabbing at my palm. Pain no longer concerned me. Too often I had been beaten where physical pain became routine.

Now I dreaded being alone. For so many years, solitude was the welcomed pause between breaths, the time to rest and heal between my father's unwanted visits.

But now I wanted what I had been denied. I wanted to share a dance with a beautiful girl, to sit at a table with strangers and listen to them speak. I wanted to be looked in the eye without fear.

"Uncle?" I said suddenly.

He snorted and jerked in his sleep. "Erik? It's still dark. What is the matter?" he mumbled. I heard him gasp for air and cough violently, the sounds so harsh I expected him to pass out from exertion.

"Nothing," I answered quickly, feeling guilty for waking him. "I just wanted to tell you…thank you," I said.

"You are a wonderful young man," he said as he turned over in his half-sleep. "You have a good heart and others will notice when you give them the opportunity to know you."

His unwavering faith in me sent a shiver down my spine. Until I had met him, no one had wanted to meet me. Loneliness had consumed me more than I had realized.

"Erik, you are…" His voice trailed off and he started to snore.

I propped myself up on my elbow and tapped his shoulder, needing his praise and reassurance, craving a moment of his kindness. "Uncle?" I whispered.

He woke briefly and sighed. "Nothing," he mumbled before he fell asleep once more.

I drew my hand back and forced my eyes closed. His thought remained unfinished, but in my mind, his mumbled, barely coherent words echoed. Over the years, when there was darkness within me, I would remember his words and I would repeat them, taunt myself until rage and hatred consumed my every thought.

Erik, you are nothing…

Soon enough this would be true. I would be nothing.


	48. One Final Song

I needed a tissue well before the end of this chapter. Would really appreciate your feedback too.

Giver49

Throughout the night I woke from fitful sleep, my heart racing each time my eyes popped open. Uneasiness gripped me, tightened my stomach and filled me with dread.

I sat trembling in the dark, certain my father had followed us. Goose flesh rose along my arms, the hairs on the back of my neck standing on end.

My God, how I feared him.

He would have been furious with me for being in the presence of others. In the back of my mind I could hear his gruff words telling me I was worthless, that I was a wicked, evil creature. Now that we were only days from Paris, I worried he would steal me back.

Or he would be there waiting, blocking our path.

Rain started before dawn, a light drizzle and distant thunder that kept me awake. Once dawn approached, I could see my uncle sound asleep on his side facing away from me. He breathed deeply and muttered under his breath. I was glad my own nightmares hadn't disturbed him. Unable to sleep, I draped my blanket over his shoulders and briefly knelt beside him.

"My father," I whispered to him, resting my hand on his thin shoulder. "You are my true father."

When at last he woke, he sat up and coughed hard into the crook of his elbow, leaving behind a spatter of blood on his shirt. He stared at the stains for a long moment before he lay down again and closed his eyes.

"Uncle?" I questioned.

"A moment longer," he said, his voice weak and slurred. "Start up the fire again. Make breakfast."

There was no greeting, no soft, familiar smile and twinkle in his eyes. He lay motionless and moaned softly as he drew the blankets up to his chin and shook violently.

I nodded even though he didn't look at me or say another word. Crawling from the tent, I found the rest of our wood pile beneath a tarp, started a small fire, and warmed my trembling hands.

Fear paralyzed me. I stared blankly into the distance, into the fog that laced through the hills and the vast, frightful unknown of the world we were supposed to travel. I sat motionless until the drizzle turned into a steady rain and the cold drove me back inside the tent.

"Uncle?" I said as I peered into the darkened interior and hoped to find him sitting upright.

My words were met with silence. I swallowed hard and slipped inside where I knelt at his back and placed my hand on his shoulder.

"Uncle Alak?" I tried again.

He gasped, made a sound as though he struggled to fill his lungs. Dark red blood stained his bottom lip, his face ashen once he turned onto his back.

I was too ignorant to move or speak, too afraid of his condition to do more than gawk. His eyes slit open and he reached for me, settling his hand on my shoulder.

"I am ill," he said weakly.

"What do I do?" I asked.

His eyes closed, his breaths labored. "Keep walking south," he whispered. "Take all the supplies you can carry."

"No." I shook my head, my chest so painfully tight I felt as though I would suffocate. "No, I can't do that."

"You cannot argue," he said to me, his voice little more than a hiss of air past his lips. "My son is waiting for you. The address is in my pack. Go. Now."

"Rest," I said, unable to do more than offer one pleading word. With the foolish hopes of a child I prayed an hour more of sleep would refresh him. This would pass, I told myself. I had been so ill I could barely move and yet I had survived. He would do the same.

"Eat," he said. Gently he reached toward my face and nodded, silently telling me to lean forward. His slender fingers were cold, and when he pulled my mask up, I shuddered.

"I can't," I said under my breath, unable to hold back the fear and emotion bubbling up within me.

"Do this for me," he whispered. He caressed my cheek and neck, smoothed his hand along the hair at the nape of my neck with such tenderness. There was no disgust in his eyes when he looked me over, no fear or repulsion. I trembled at his touch, ashamed mine would be the last face he would ever see.

"Erik," he said to me, his voice trembling. "Look at me, my son."

"What do you want me to do?" I asked, fearing what he would ask of me. Tears clouded my eyes, spilled down my cheeks in hot, thick drops. I choked on each breath, overwhelmed by a situation I could barely comprehend. He was dying.

"I want you to leave," he gasped.

I shook my head, so overcome by grief that I couldn't breathe or see. I gripped his wrist and he pressed his hand against my face, wiping the tears from my eyes.

"Don't make me leave," I begged. "Please, Uncle, don't make me leave."

"Erik," he said between labored breaths.

I tilted forward, doubled over at his side and draped my arm over his chest. All the peace in the world threatened to leave me, the one pinnacle of kindness fading faster than I had ever imagined.

"Don't leave me," I wept. "Please don't leave me."

He rested his hand on my back and I felt his body jolt, breath hitch. He inhaled sharply and turned his face toward mine. Cold lips touched my right temple, shallow breaths brushed past the ruined side of my face.

"Would you play for me one last time?" he requested.

I forced myself upright and wiped the tears from my face. Numb and unable to catch my breath, I searched through our belongings until I found his violin case. Once I held the case in my hands, I remembered what he had told me on the first night of our journey. With my feet bloodied and blistered from a day of walking, he told me of the Angel of Music, the entity who had come for his beloved wife.

He would join her. He would leave me.

This was his one last request, my one last time to please the only person in my life who cared for me. He had loved me unconditionally, through my temper and naïve, childish moments. The moment I opened the case, I began to sob so hard I nearly made myself sick.

He watched me with such sadness in his eyes and mouthed _forgive me, my son_ as I finally managed to take up the violin and bow. I played each bar as they came to me, a series of notes that trickled in between each rattling sob. I had never played the song before and I never would as I had little recollection of the melody. This was my final gift to him, a song I would never play again.

The rain came harder, the hiss of a dying fire outside the small tent we shared eventually drowned by the rain. I shook with despair, with more heartache than I thought I could endure.

"Bravo," he said when I finished, his voice so soft I could barely hear him. Blood stained the corner of his lips and the insides of his nostrils, bright red and fresh. The site of blood terrified me, the threat of death made me light-headed.

I placed the violin carefully into the case and crawled toward him, unsure of what to do or what to say. He reached for my hand, gently squeezed my fingers, and closed his eyes. He smiled weakly, his lips parted as though he would say one last word to me.

I waited a long moment for him to speak, craving just the sound of my name on his lips. No single word would be enough, I knew.

"Uncle, I love you," I whispered, foolishly hoping my words would save him.

His hand grew limp, his body stilled. I never knew if he heard my last words to him or the howl of pure anguish I released, the scream from the very bottom of my lungs.

The rain poured down in sheets, battered the sides of the tent like fists and dampened the ground beneath us. Time passed unnoticed.

I ignored the threat of rain and the sound of horse drawn wagons. As I had done so many times before, I shut down, unable to register the pain of loss. Physical pain I could tolerate, but this…this hurt far worse than any beating I had ever endured. I would have gladly offered myself up for my father's cruel amusement if I could have had my uncle one more day.

Unbearable grief consumed me, left me unable to move or breathe. I would have remained there for days, laid down and died beside him merely to keep from being alone.

My cries, however, had drawn the attention of other travelers.

A tall, dark, thick man drew the tent flap open, startling me. His beard was braided and decorated with silver beads that accented the white hairs in his eyebrows and a deep, old scar across his forehead. He stared me in the eye for a long moment, reminded me of the cruelty and malice my father often displayed. When I failed to acknowledge him, he eyed my uncle's body and wrinkled his nose.

"Dead?" he asked.

I turned from him and made no reply. My answer would not matter.

"Did you kill him?" the man asked.

I shook my head, horrified by the question. I wanted to hit him in the face, to scream that I would never do anything to harm my uncle, to harm anyone at all.

"What has happened to your face?" he questioned.

All too late I realized I wasn't wearing my mask. Too stricken with grief, I had forgotten my uncle had removed the covering to see me fully one last time.

The man left, though I didn't notice when or for how long. When he returned there were others.

And they stalked toward me with chains.


	49. Alone Once More

A/N The final chapter for the Giver stories and it's a long one!

I'm sure Young Kire will be ready to talk about the gypsies soon, but I think I'm going to go back to some happier, albeit still irritated with the world, adult Kire and Julia. This whole story was emotionally draining, so I'm ready for a little bit of Alex babbling on about whatever enters his head and their time by the seashore. If anyone deserves a vacation, it's Kire.

Also, I was going to add a few short stories from Madeline's POV because she's been so understated and I think she'd have a lot of dirt on Kire no one else would tell. Thank you to everyone for all of your reviews and comments. I appreciate you sticking with Kire (and me) for so long. New Kire story will start going up probably in a week or two. I don't have a title for the new one yet.

Giver50

Grief stood in the way of trepidation. The men tore through the tent, weapons in hand and teeth bared like vicious animals. They ripped the fabric to shreds and broke the poles as they rummaged through our belongings and apparently found nothing of interest.

Once they formed a circle around me, I eyed them but made no attempt to flee or acknowledge their presence with words. Reminded of my father bearing down on me in the cellar, I knew no words or actions would spare me whatever cruelty they had in store. Salvation had abandoned me.

I didn't care what they said or what they would do to me. A new wave of emotion took hold and I reached for my uncle's cold, stiff hand. The cold didn't bother me, as his hand against my face had felt quite cool. What alarmed me was his fingers had turned stiff. He felt more like a statue than my beloved uncle, and this frightened me. Sucking in a breath, I released his hand and sat back, recoiling slightly from the body.

The realization that the man I adored was gone and only a corpse remained clouded my eyes with tears and stole the air from my lungs.

"Lasso him and pull him away," I heard a man instruct. "Do not touch either of them, especially the boy's face."

Slowly they neared, stalked toward me with apprehension. Chains dangled from their outstretched hands, ropes gathered in order to tether me. The understanding that I was alone and my uncle would not protect me, made me abruptly roll to my feet.

These strangers terrified me.

"Easy," one man said, his voice a threatening growl.

"He doesn't understand," the man beside him said. They all looked the same to me; dark eyed and dark haired. "He's a mute. Ignorant by the looks of him. Probably can't hear, either."

Always underestimated, always judged before I could prove my worth, I glanced down at my uncle's body, at the only person who had faith in me. These men, these gypsies, they would take me away from him. They would take away everything.

My uncle deserved one final moment of dignity. I wanted one last farewell—and I was more than willing to fight them for the right to see him at peace.

"I must bury him," I said suddenly, my voice an urgent plea. A sob escaped as well, a deep, guttural sound.

The gang of men surrounding me paused and exchanged looks. Behind them in the distance, something billowing and white darted between the wagons. I almost swore a ghost walked amongst them, for one hopeful instant I thought my uncle had come to guide me to Paris.

An old woman in dark clothing and a scarf covering her hair pushed through carrying a broom. She shoved the men aside and muttered under her breath, which drew their attention. Every few steps, she made the sign of the cross and shouted, then pushed the bristles against the dirt and grass.

She glanced at me briefly, her weathered, olive expression stern but dark eyes keen. Waving her hand in the air she shouted, "Bad spirits! The dead must be buried!"

"He was not bad," I protested.

"Not him," she said, briskly walking in a wide circle around me, all the while sweeping at the dirt. She had come to sweep away the evil the gypsies thought clung to the grounds. "No, he has gone, but there are bad spirits here. They must go."

Her actions left me both fascinated and bewildered as she continued to sweep and demand whatever spirits she sensed were near to leave at her command. I froze where I stood, afraid some unseen entity would brush up against me. The closer she drew toward me, I held my breath and waited for her to pass.

"Evil," she said. "There are evil spirits on this ground. They will not follow us. I will not allow it. God protect my family, God protect my littlest grand children, God protect Roxana, God protect these roads." She paused and waved her wrinkled hand in the air and stared at me again. Looking me dead in the eye, she made the sign of the cross again, her hand slowly sweeping through the air. "Make the sign," she ordered. "Do it now. Right now."

I swallowed hard and looked from her to the crowd standing behind her. The same billow of white I had seen only a moment before passed behind the wagons.

"Do it!" she ordered. "Like this!"

I imitated her movements, unsure of what she hoped to accomplish. The horses seemed to grow uneasy, pawing at the ground and snorting to one another. The old woman took several steps closer to me and narrowed her eyes. She had marks on the palms of her hands, dark, tattooed lines that drew my attention.

"There is still evil around you," she said to me. "Within you as well."

There was no room for evil within me, I wanted to tell her. All emotions, all feelings had turned to grief and turmoil. I looked away from her and sank to my knees where I rummaged through my uncle's belongings and found a small shovel. Ignoring the looming crowd, I began digging a proper grave, intent on putting him beneath the ground and away from scavenging animals.

"He will bury his dead," the old woman announced. "He shall do so alone."

Interest lost, the crowd pulled back and I was left to work in solitude. My throat tightened, tears held at bay for the sake of duty. I felt them watching me, their interest piqued by my sullen duty as I removed what was left of the tent and piled the fabric and broken poles on the opposite side of the fire. Saw dust and bits of wood remained from the statues we had made the previous day, discarded remnants created during our final conversation.

Crestfallen, I sank to my knees and began to dig. Sweat poured down my face, blisters covered my palms, and dirt caked beneath my fingernails. Daylight turned to dusk, my shoulders ached, cramps bunched my legs as I crouched and moved stones, hard clumps of clay, and black dirt until I had a shallow grave dug.

I didn't have the stamina to give him anything more. My hands were raw and aching, my throat dry, my body sore from hard labor. With the last of my strength, I grabbed him under the arms and dragged him little more than arm's length away to his final resting place. He was heavier than I had imagined, especially given his frail state. I nearly collapsed into the hole on top of him.

The way in which his body tumbled left me choking for air. I wasn't strong enough to move him with care, to respect him the way I desired. Specks of dirt coated his lips and fell onto his shirt, and through tear-clouded eyes, I sat on my knees and shook, the tight bind of emotion strangling any sound I attempted to make.

With great reluctance I covered his body with cold earth, the heady scent of soil a bitter reminder of my father's home. Every time I inhaled, sickness swelled in my empty belly and several times I gagged until I was forced to cover my nose and mouth with my shirt and wait until the sensation passed.

I sat motionless for a while, my uncle's legs and torso covered by black dirt, his chest and ashen face still visible. Looking at him—at what had been him—became nearly impossible. Over and over I cursed myself for walking slowly, for arguing with him, for asking to stay the night and spend the morning with Amelie.

Disappointment turned to acute loathing for myself and my selfish ways. If I had been of any worth at all, I would not have accepted his offer to leave. He should not have traveled as far as he did, with such a worthless child at his heels. I was a horrible child, always sneaking about, always escaping. He would have lived if I had stayed put, if I had accepted my fate and gone to the asylum as my parents desired.

I wondered how long his own son would hold out hope for our arrival, if he would think his monster of a cousin murdered his beloved father. Part of me wanted to write to him and explain what had happened, though I had no desire to speak of my uncle's death. I felt wholly responsible, a murderer without blood on his hands.

Darkness fell and I sobbed as I pushed dirt into the grave. His face disappeared before my swollen eyes, and once I patted the dirt into place and secured stones over the body, I realized there was no suitable marker for a headstone. He was gone completely from me, a man deserving of so much more than what I could offer.

The old woman returned and made the sign of the cross as I sat cross-legged beside the burial plot and finally caught my breath. Exhausted and defeated, I made no attempt to acknowledge her.

"Deception," she said as she pointed a gnarled finger at me.

I sat hunched over, wrapping my arms around my chest as though I could somehow contain the deep ache resonating through my body. Staring at the mound of dirt, I was certain there would be no greater agony in my lifetime, no amount of physical pain that could compete with how I felt.

Each kind word, each moment of praise, had disappeared with his body.

"You," the old woman said, her tone accusing. "You are deception."

The gypsies crowded around, and despite their close proximity—or perhaps because of where they stood, I felt more alone than I had felt before.

The old woman swept dirt toward me and brandished her cleaning tool like a weapon, which she swiped back and forth through the air. The bristles grazed my arms, dust tickling my nose. I turned my head and coughed, and the moment I took my eyes off her, she sprinkled me with water. Startled, I shot her a look and watched as she capped a small indigo glass bottle decorated with beads strung through wire. A silver cross dangled from a satin string tied around the neck.

"Away!" she shouted. "Out! Out of here!"

Her outburst made me wince and I jerked away from her, fully prepared to flee. At once I received a knee between the shoulder blades, which forced me forward and immediately punched the air from my lungs. Hands gripped my shirt and drove me onto my stomach where I was pinned by a hard, blunt object in the center of my back. A foot, I thought, though I didn't bother turning to find out. Curiosity and struggling seemed worthless.

Horse hooves pounded the earth, echoed in my ear as I lay with the right side of my face pressed to upturned dirt and grass. Once whoever drove me down realized I would not fight, the pressure lessened and I could breathe.

Resigned to my fate, I released a pent up breath and found no reason or desire to struggle. After months of peace in my uncle's company, despite the distance I had traveled from my father's home, my life had not changed. Cruelty and hatred, no matter where I traveled or what I did, would find me.

"Roxana!" the old woman shouted. "What do you see?"

From the edge of my vision I saw a wisp of white. I turned my head a fraction of an inch to see a girl perhaps a year older than myself standing on the back of a white horse. Everything about her was ghostly from her alabaster gown, her pale face and eyes, and her waist-length white hair. She had a narrow, cat-like face and silver beads draped around her neck. Silver jewelry adored her fingers and a belt hung around her thin waist. She reminded me of starlight, pale and cold.

Unable to tell if she was real or imagined, I turned my head to fully stare at her. She jumped from the horse's back and landed smoothly on the ground, arms in front of her for balance. Either she didn't notice me or she pretended I didn't exist, either way, she spared no acknowledgment.

"There is nothing here or worth or value," she said as she sauntered around. Her horse danced in a circle, its white legs kicking high in the air.

"Do you sense them still?" the old woman asked.

"No, grandmother, the spirits have passed," she announced. "The road ahead is safe."

"What of him?" the old woman questioned, pointing her broom toward me.

The girl—Roxana—spared me a glance. She wrinkled her nose and stood a little straighter as she toyed with her rings.

"I see darkness," she said, keeping her voice low. Her gaze flitted toward the distance. "A void my eyes cannot penetrate."

A fortune teller, I realized, though I doubted her gift of foresight. There had always been darkness around me. In a strange way I found comfort in knowing my path would not be greatly jarred, that my fate was tightly sealed.

Thick cuffs clamped around my wrists, and as Roxana turned away and effortlessly mounted her white horse, I was forced to stand. My hands were bound together, linked with an iron chain too thick and heavy for even an elephant.

"Leave everything else. Bring only the boy," Roxana ordered.

With a handful of chains, I pulled back from the two men who had chained me. They looked startled but didn't move. While they gawked, I bent and reached for my pack. The scattered food and supplies I left behind, taking only my leather bag containing shirts, a comb, and a wooden angel. I strained to grab the violin case and managed to stuff the cumbersome object into the bag. My uncle's cane lay beneath cooking supplies, though I was too far away to reach it.

I would not abandon my only possessions, my greatest treasures and memories. The rest I was forced to leave behind and no one else dared to touch per the fortune teller's instruction.

"Secure him," I heard a man shout from his seat at the head of the wagons. "For God's sake, secure the beast."

My time alongside my uncle had ended. A prisoner of the gypsies, I knew Paris would remain out of reach. I wrapped the leather strap around my wrist as the men pulled me forward and secured the chain to the back of the final wagon.

The white horse trotted past, the rider once again perfectly balanced on its back. She whistled and the gelding raced past us, a streak of pearl white in the dark. The last I saw was her still standing on its back as though she stood on solid ground and not a galloping horse.

I knew for certain that if I had attempted such a feat on Moon's back I would have fallen with her first step. I wondered if Roxana possessed skill or somehow tricked my eyes. She intrigued me with her balance and grace, not her fortune telling.

Once she was out of my sight, I wondered how long Amelie would faithfully keep Moon. There would be no returning for either of them, which greatly saddened me. Both would think I had simply abandoned them and retracted my word. Amelie would think me a liar; Moon would most likely go to slaughter. Both realizations devastated me.

"You," a voice behind me growled. "You are not to look at my daughter."

Obedience was never my strong point, but I didn't reply or acknowledge his words. The wagons lurched forward, heavy chains dragged along the ground. I hesitated a moment, waited for the chain to be pulled taut before I was forced to take my first step.

"Walk or be dragged," the same voice rumbled from behind me. "Make your choice."

Reluctantly I followed behind like a dog chained to the end of their caravan. Through the darkness they wandered, nomads scratching a living from one town to the next, constantly driven away. They truly were no better than me.

Once the caravan crested the top of a hill, I glanced back into the darkness at the unknown, distant place my uncle was buried. There was nothing of significance to mark his burial site, no prominent gathering of trees or nearby village I would be able to recognize. There was only a hill in the countryside and nothing more, a miserable enigma that would keep me from ever finding him again.

Knowing I could never return to him, never pay the proper respects, nearly brought me to my knees.

I managed to pull my arm through the strap and hefted my bag onto my shoulder where the violin case rested against the side of my neck. I caressed the leather case, found comfort in an instrument.

Though miniscule, I found a heartbeat of peace as I stood alone. There were shadows all around, reminders of the man who had warned me of the asylum, who had fearlessly taken me away from my parents. He had been stern in telling me I would leave that horrible village, yet permissive in allowing me to follow him. He had stood up for me against my own father, defended me from total strangers, and forced me to enjoy the most wonderful night in my life. Not once had he struck or berated me, not even when I deserved both.

I couldn't allow his faith in me to fade so swiftly. Cloaked in darkness, I walked alone but imagined he was still at my side, his hand on my shoulder, soft gaze set on me. If I had nothing else, I still had his memory and no one could deny me that—no one but myself.

His memory would keep me alive, at least a little while longer. Eventually the pain coiled in my heart would become unbearable, my grief too intense and lacking outlet. I would attempt to emanate his strength, the power and cunning in his voice when physically he was weak. For years I would want to be like him, but eventually I would do everything in my power to forget him.

I knew he would have been greatly disappointed and grieved for what I would become. Perhaps he would have been proud of me for continuing with my music, but he would have loathed the ghost I became for so long.

But there would be another unlikely person in my life, and decades would pass before I truly understood the impact of her compassion.

At last, in the throes of my deepest despair, I would remember the man who had seen good within me and a boy worth saving. Whatever he saw in me, I found impossible to find in myself.

Despite the brief time we spent together, I knew without him in my life, I would not have had the courage to raise my son or the sense to see past my own self-loathing. I would not have survived my childhood.

I always wondered what type of man I would have been if I had remembered him with greater clarity, clung to his memory rather than pushed away my grief. I didn't understand the pain I harbored within was the result of love, not weakness.

I would be weak for a very long time.


End file.
